


Dear Old Days

by penelopewaltz



Category: GOT7, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Relationship - Taegi, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Bisexuality, Bottom Park Jimin (BTS), Denial of Feelings, Emotional Roller Coaster, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Heartbreak, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I Wrote This While Listening to Jazz Music, It's Hard and Nobody Understands, Jikook-centric, Kissing, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Minor Kim Namjoon | RM/Original Character(s), Minor Kim Seokjin | Jin/Original Character(s), Minor Park Jimin (BTS)/Original Character(s), Misunderstandings, New York City, Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV Park Jimin (BTS), Park Jimin is Bad at Feelings (BTS), Park Jimin is Trying His Best (BTS), Park Jimin is a Mess (BTS), Pining, Platonic Soulmates Kim Taehyung | V & Park Jimin, Polyamorous Hoseok, Smut, Strong Female Characters, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Top Jeon Jungkook, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopewaltz/pseuds/penelopewaltz
Summary: Breakups are always hard, but it is even harder when it seems that you have moved on, but you cannot stop thinking about - and possibly loving - the person that you have left behind. Jimin definitely knows it.***“Look at me, Jimin,” he demands. His voice leaves no room for arguments. This new side of him scares me a bit. It is unexpected and makes me feel like a small, frightened kitty cat. “Turn around and look at me for real.”I smile looking down at my feet. “I don’t want you to be real.”Jungkook chuckles bitterly. “I’m right here, though.”“I know, it’s just that…” I do not end the sentence. Although I do not think I am ready to face him, I turn around. “Ain’t no way you’re standing here in front of me.”***Part I - PlowingPart II - SowingPart III - HarvestingPart IV - Threshing
Relationships: Jeon Jungkook & Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. Part I - Plowing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is my first ever BTS fanfic (and partly GOT7). There are four parts and each part has nine chapters. 
> 
> Plus, English is not my native language, so please be considerate :)  
> Sorry in advance if I make some mistakes! 
> 
> Enjoy! 💜
> 
> P.S. This story is going to be very long (so please be patient!) with explicit language and sexual/mature content. Homosexuality, bisexuality, and non-explicit polyamory are also mentioned. Please consider it before reading, I do not want to upset you or hurt your feelings.

**PART I - PLOWING**

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower; 

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay.

_Nothing Gold Can Stay_ by Robert Frost


	2. The Django

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "However, in the silence of that fortress called thoughtlessness, I forced him to let me go because I selfishly wished to learn how to live without him."
> 
> or
> 
> Jimin meets his friends at his favorite jazz club and finds out something unexpected.

The first of October sets in with heaps of dry leaves on the tarmac. While toying with the idea of another long, cold autumn, I walk to my favorite jazz club, _The Django_ , my second home and safe shelter after boring and repetitive hours at work. At least once a week, on _Sixth Avenue_ at the corner with _White Street_ , on the second floor of the _Roxy Hotel_ , I forget the weight of my robotic daily life.

And even today, while barely putting one foot in front of the other due to my exhaustion, New York has never been so alive. Like wet dogs after a walk in the park, between puddles and ditches, passers-by shake raindrops off their patchwork tweed coats, one of the current fashion trends. Fastly and quietly, they run along the sidewalks not caring about my existence and the heavy breathing of the city that feeds on its inhabitants, flashing lights and honking cabs.

I come around the last corner before arriving, go inside the hotel, get up to the second floor, and then step into the club. _The Django_ is not a particularly big venue considering the only one large room open to the general public. However, it has all those fitting details that make you feel at home: plastered dark brick walls that make the club look like it is still under restoration, wooden armchairs and red leather sofas, dimmed lights above the tables without tablecloths. The adjoining rooms have more or less a similar set-up but they can be accessed only on holidays or for business meetings.

After leaving my jacket on one of the chairs at my usual table next to the small performing stage, I get closer to the bar counter. Luckily, today Mike is on shift and, the moment he notices me, he greets me by nodding his head. He also welcomes me with one of those wide smiles that are usually reserved for those loyal customers who are well-known for splashing out. I am definitely one of them.

"Hi, Mike." I smile back and get ready to let go of money.

“Hi, overworked man. The usual?”

"I'd say yes but I'll pass today," I answer while loosening my tie.

Mike notices the unusual tone of my voice, absent-minded and resigned, and raises an inquiring eyebrow. "Bad day, uh?"

I sigh. "You can tell it by my mood or my tie?"

"I've never seen you like this before, wearing a tie on weekdays, actually."

“Last minute meeting. Today is definitely not my lucky day."

Mike chuckles and then asks, “When is it, exactly?”

We both grin. “So, what are you suggesting?”

"Well, if you don't get your usual, I've another solution for you!"

Mike turns around and starts to make what seems to be a vodka-based drink. My usual is an old, ever good Mary Pickford, even if it is extremely sweet. I am one of those masochists who, for the love of an old, precious memory, easily adapts to the tastes of those who they decided to let go but are still unable to forget. Mary Pickford is the liquid reminder of a distant lover: the Marasca cherry syrup tastes like a passionate kiss after months of separation; the sting of white rum punches right in the gut like that feeling of being fucked mercilessly, deeper and deeper; the sugar on the edge of the glass that tickles and puts you in a good mood.

"Here you go. A Harvey Wallbanger never disappoints."

I do not know why but I laugh at the cocktail name. I hold the glass up to my mouth; I take a sip and then swallow. The mix of vodka and orange is refreshing at the right point. "My trusted bartender deserves a hell of a tip tonight."

Mike smiles again while I am paying and tipping him more than I should. I am a man with ambiguous moral qualities but at least I can say that I have always been a generous guy. I go back to my table, relax on the chair, and finally drink for real. One sip, two sips, three sips...

“ _Unforgettable, that's what you are_.”

His memory comes back to my mind like a boomerang. I close my eyes and I picture him sneering in that way that used to wreck me. I feel the touch of his calloused hand on my forearm like that time when we decided to have a stroll in Central Park. I wonder how long ago this happened. I only remember that it was spring, a lovely warm day; I was calm and sincerely excited. We were both young but together and Seul did not seem so far away.

“ _Unforgettable though near or far like a song of love that clings to me_.”

What I would do to hear his voice once again and the different tones he used to warn me, to greet me, to make me laugh, or to turn me on. His voice was a gentle cantilena, a delicate lullaby, a blessing in the moments of discouragement. When I had him, I was unable to keep him with me and when I left him, I only wanted to have him closer. It is crazy how our love was an eternal back and forth. Mostly because of me, for sure.

“ _How the thought of you does things to me, never before has someone been more_.”

Here is the part that hurts me the most: the physical nostalgia that I feel for him. His soft lips, his long fingers, his perfect ass, his strong thighs, his thick cock. I miss how I made him wheeze, the way he made me gasp. Each thrust was abandonment and promise at the same time. The taste of his salty sperm in my mouth, the sweaty bangs on my forehead, the erratic friction of our thighs on the bed. Although I lost him, I did not lose my thirst and this thirst still belongs to him.

“ _That's why, darling, it's incredible that someone so unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable too_.”

"Who knows if you're still thinking 'bout me..." I mutter to myself without noticing Seokjin sitting on my right. 

"Hyung, I think about you all the time, especially when I'm taking a shower."

I turn around abruptly and Seokjin cannot hold his laugh in seeing me so surprised as I was not expecting to see him like any other Thursday evening at our metropolitan shelter.

"Welcome on Planet Earth, Jimin. It's Thursday, it's exactly 5:35 pm and Namjoon is getting two gin and tonic at the bar counter."

"You know what Nat King Cole does to me. Each of his songs is a blast from the past."

"Were you only hearkening back to your past in general or were you crucifying yourself for all sorts of shit you had done your whole life?" He asks nonchalantly.

"Gamsa, hyung. I can always count on you," I reply annoyed.

He winks at me. "Cheonmaneyo, Jimin. You know I can say worse things about you than this."

We are interrupted by Namjoon who stumbles upon himself while getting closer and drop the two cocktails on the ground. "Fuck."

"Don't worry, Joon," Seokjin says teasingly, "It could be worse. You could've broken your neck or made a crater on the floor." We all laugh.

"Gamsa, Jin. I almost forgot to be the personification of the God of destruction for a second. I'm going to get other two drinks," Namjoon says rolling his eyes.

"I'd rather not get gin and tonic for good luck this time, hyung," I suggest while laughing and then a disheartened Namjoon goes back to the bar counter.

"So, hyung, how is Mallory doing?" Seokjin asks mischievously interested. 

"Good, I'd say. Right now, she goes back and forth from New York to San Diego where she's developing a renovation project for a monstrous resort."

"I bet your longing for her is eating you alive," he comments ironically.

"Hyung," I start replying with a sigh of resignation. Seokjin gives a hint of a forced smile and looks at me with those big black eyes that always suck the soul right out of me as if there is no time to overthink or mope; as if he can get inside you without you knowing he is doing so. And if you do realize it, it is always late anyway. "You know that I love having my own space and I don't fear solitude."

"That's why you make bad choices all the damn time." I fail to try to look at him in the worst way possible. "And don't look at me like that 'cause you know what I mean. After that whole mess, you've been fucking around to console yourself over it. First, it was Edoardo but he was too much... What did you say? Lively? And so, you dumped him. Then you wanted to try new experiences, so you thought it was better to bang Gretha but she didn't have a dick so it was quite unsatisfying."

"Mallory doesn't have a dick as well. You know it's not about dicks."

"Maybe. So why, after Gretha, you tried once again with Edoardo and then with Alexander?" Seokjin smirks knowing he is going to win this war for sure.

"Why should I settle for a set menu when I can get the all-you-can-eat?"

"Shame that in your case it's not all-you-can-eat but all-you-can-eat-and-fuck, without gender discrimination. It's impressive, hyung. All international choices, no Koreans. I wonder why," he says already knowing the reason.

"This makes me a good, open-minded person."

"This makes you a freak and a whore," Seokjin sticks his tongue out at me. "Under your elegant clothes and your gender-fluid aspect, you're a mess."

"I agree but please don't misunderstand, hyung. I really appreciate your physical stamina," Namjoon says winking at me while sitting on the chair on my left and paying attention not to drop his Gin Fizz.

"From gin and tonic to Gin Fizz is a short step," I reply sardonically raising my eyebrows. Namjoon blushes and then laughs heartily.

"Well, I guess so if you don't stumble upon yourself every five seconds." He gives Jin his drink and then turns again to face me and says," Anyway, this is for you. I’ve got you the same drink. Mike told me that tonight Mary Pickford is banned."

"Alright, cut the chatter, men," Seokjin interrupts, "Let's go back to where we were. Alexander. You've been together for a couple of months and, as a straight guy, I gotta tell you, he was dead handsome! Maybe a little too much obsessed with proteins and wheatgrass juice. Finally, here comes Mallory. She's pretty too, but she's a pain in the ass-"

"Jin," Namjoon cries out cautious while sipping his cocktail and meeting my eyes. "Okay, honestly, he's right. Sometimes I just wonder how you can stand her especially when she starts ranting against you-"

"Joon-hyung, please, not you too!" I reply exasperated. "Look, it's true, most of the time she's not easy to handle 'cause she's a badass. We're an intellectual match, though. Sex with her is great too... Well, even if it's straight sex, and I don't feel like I'm ready to let her go-"

"'Cause you're afraid to be alone, byung-shin-a!"

"I agree with Jin. Mallory shouldn't be a simple distraction to divert your attention from what's wrong in your life," the truth-teller, the Enlighted intellectual Namjoon scolds me.

"Listen, you also had some experiences and I've never-" I try to explain myself.

Seokjin laughs annoyingly. "I was with Minseo, then I dated Hannah just long enough to go back to Minseo and apologize to her, I admit it. Hannah was a temporary distraction and an easy escape from responsibilities and adulthood. And, you know, I just can't get enough of Minseo's wide hips and lush breasts. You know what flesh does to me!"

"Thank you for sharing, Jin," Namjoon adds laughing and rolling his eyes. "Tonight, I'll sleep thinking about Minseo and it won't be a dream-"

"But an awful nightmare!" I add pointing the finger at Seokjin.

"Well, better this way. I'm the only one who can console himself with the copious, exquisite thighs of Minseo."

Namjoon snorts irritated. The tall, good-looking guy on my left does not like intimate details or sexual content any longer than necessary. He turns around to look at me intrigued for a moment and before he can ask me something that I fear, I ask him beforehand, "And you, hyung? Don't you have anything to teach your weak-hearted, promiscuous friend here?"

"Nothing to teach because there's always something to learn. And you know that I've been with Subin ever since high school. We left Seul together when we were 20 and we never went back. She's my home."

"Please," Seokjin snorts, "Listen, you poet, you're not lecturing us right now. Leave your job as associate professor out of this profane place." He finishes his drink and orders another round. "If you want to share, why don't you tell us if Subin likes your-"

"Jimin," Namjoon interrupts Seokjin to avoid any awkwardness, "When was the last time you heard from the others?"

His question does not catch me by surprise. I already grasped his will to ask me something about someone but I still feel like it is not the long and the short of it. "Yoongi is always busy at his recording studio somewhere in Tribeca and when he has two minutes to spare, I guess he only wants to be a couch potato. And it doesn't help that he doesn't go clubbing that much. You know how he's like."

"True," Namjoon and Seokjin say at the same time while sipping their cocktails.

I finish my second drink and start the third one that the waiter has just brought me. "And I love going clubbing and drinking," I finally say winking at them. "Hoseok... You know better than I do how busy he is as well, bouncing around like a pinball, a loose cannon that never stops. His cooperative requires his full attention. There's no room for me."

"Sometimes I wonder if he ever sleeps," Seokjin exclaims worriedly.

"That man knows no sleep. He's probably taken a nap once in 30 years! I can see why he's a loose cannon. It's not about euphoria but side effects of sleep deprivation," Namjoon suggests, and we all laugh. "Aish, what can we do about it? We're not normal. If we don't consider Yoongi who always sleeps and Hoseok who never sleeps, there's only Taehyung left. But he's always working on courses or classes of all kinds: painting, dance, pottery, music, theater..."

We all laugh once again. "Our wealthy, sophisticated dandy," I say always flabbergasted by Taehyung's out-of-ordinary life.

"I'd kill to be in his shoes. Believe me, it's not about the cash, but I'm sick and tired of sitting at my desk at work with Jimin's dead fish face in front of me," Seokjin grumbles. "And, by the way, Joon, Jimin's desk blocks my view of the city since he decided to put it right in front of the window. Megalomaniac."

I laugh cheerfully at Seokjin's words: he is always petulant but he never loses his ironic vein. This man laughs at anything and anybody; he laughs at himself as well and it is a gift that I never received.

"There's one left, hyung," Namjoon points out.

"Who?" I pretend to not understand what he means but Seokjin does not miss the chance and adds, "Your Mary Pickford, obviously."

"We're not friends," I reply trying to sound as neutral as possible while a furious, silent war breaks out inside me.

"You were. Well, you were more than friends, you know, before you started fucking random rabble," Seokjin says vehemently.

"Joon-hyung, please help me. Maybe Jin-hyung forgot a few steps."

"My beloved Jiminie, unfortunately, we remember everything, for better or worse. I just wanted to tell you that he's back in town. He moved here again but permanently this time, I guess," Namjoon explains nonchalantly but I am well aware that he is trying not to add further information and hurt me somehow. I have this feeling that Namjoon is hiding something on purpose but I do not ask.

"I honestly thought that he decided to live in Seul even if not long ago Tae told me that he had seen him sometimes in the last three years here in New York."

"Yeah, but now he's here and he's not going anywhere anytime soon," Namjoon simply answers and puts on his coat. "Anyway, it's late. Another great day of stressed students and frustrated colleagues is waiting for me tomorrow."

"At least you're lucky enough to work with decent people. I've to work with Jimin!" Seokjin mumbles as if he was already exhausted at the thought of having to deal with me one more day."

"Jin-hyung, we all know that you spend all your working hours by looking at Minseo's photos on your Mac. I'm the one who slaves away from morning till night in the editorial office." 

Namjoon chuckles and Seokjin grimaces. Well, the usual. I get up and put on my jacket as well and then I'm headed to the exit with the other two after acknowledging Mike with a wave as we go past.

Outside the _Roxy Hotel_ , we say goodbye and each one of us goes on his own way. Both Namjoon and Seokjin lives in Manhattan: the former has an apartment in East Village; the latter rented a small terraced house in Harlem. Both of them walk towards their women who every night, after work, wait for them to have dinner and hang out together.

While walking down a flight of steps to take the subway at _Franklin Street Station_ , I think about Mallory who is not going to be at my place because she is in San Diego and she does not even live with me. I still do not know how to describe our relationship; we have never tried to put a label on it.

I would not say that we are dating but we have been 'hanging out' for just over a year but I still feel like I do not even know her. I have never fucked her in the shower or on the couch in front of a TV after eating slices of pizza. Never I have slow danced with her entwined in a sweet embrace. We do not use stupid, childish, or embarrassing pet names. We have never been to Barclay's to watch a Lakers or Chicago Bull game stuffing ourselves in the meantime.

I get off at _14 Street Station_ and change to _Bedford Avenue Station_. It is the journey I make every single day to go back home. I walk downstairs, turn around some corners, get on the subway without a second thought. It is the usual journey of a 28-year-old guy with a monotonous dark grey life.

He is back in town and he is going to stay this time. I left him but I do not even remember why and how it happened. I am sure I said some bullshit about life being too monotonous and repetitive, about me being always pissed off for whatever reason. I did not want to take refuge in the quietness of an absolutely normal life. I just remember this spasmodic craving for strong emotions and self-sufficiency. Sometimes I only wanted to take care of myself without him even if he was the one who had left Seul after high school to join me in New York. He gave me full autonomy. However, in the silence of that fortress called thoughtlessness, I forced him to let me go because I selfishly wished to learn how to live without him.

After a five-year relationship, we fought more and found fewer compromises. I was more tired, insufferable; he was more annoyed, distant. We let negativity get in the way of our joy rather than rely on our mutual understanding. I played the age card on several occasions: we fell in love too soon, we shared everything in a very short time and we watched helplessly as we burned down like witches at the stake. I should have made more efforts for sure. But nonetheless, I did not.

I left him and, since then, I have never been able to stay on my own. I sought shelter in strangers' arms and between their thighs. I can only imagine what Mallory would have to say if she found out that once I let men stick their dicks up my ass and I gladly fucked them as well in return. I wonder what she would think of me if she knew that once I had only paid attention to and care about a man, not about women at all. She is so bon-ton that she would never understand. Her conformist, puritan education would only push her to judge me and I do not really want to be judged. Let he who is without sin throw the first stone.

I finally get off at my stop. Unlike Namjoon and Seokjin, after breaking up with a loyal, lovable man and leaving our safe nest, I decided to live in Brooklyn. I rented an apartment in Williamsburg not too far from McCarren Park because I simply love the hipster vibes of the neighborhood. It takes about ten minutes to make it home. After getting inside, I bump into Mrs. Batsy who is on the threshold of her apartment. She smiles widely. "Hi, dear Jimin. You look tired. Get some sleep."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Batsy. It's just temporary fatigue."

"I'm not buying it, you know! You look like you haven't slept in almost three years."

I am always surprised by how perceptive and observant Mrs. Batsy is. It has been exactly three years since I have not slept next to my favorite man. "The time frame is pretty spot-on."

"I know, my dear. I've always had a sort of sixth sense. You always say less than you feel but your body shows everything nonetheless. Goodnight, Jimin."

Bingo. "Goodnight, Mrs. Batsy."

"Again with this Mrs. Batsy? You make me feel old when I'm only 88 and still have a lot of time left to live. Call me Katherine, for God's sake!" Mrs. Batsy grimaces, closes the door, and leaves me speechless. Damn, I love this woman.

I go up to the third floor and walk into my house. I hang my jacket next to the main door and, after I close it, I go to the kitchen and open the fridge to grab a bottle of water. I cannot sleep if I do not have something to drink on my nightstand. Preferably water, of course. It is an old habit from my childhood. Almost every night, at some point, I wake up thirsty.

I lean on one of my kitchen counters and I look at my apartment from the kitchen to the living room with a couch too big for only one person. The apartment is in itself an impersonal space. It does not show a great personality or a sophisticated style. I am never eager to decorate. I do not have much time or patience - or this is what I tell myself. The kitchen and the living room both are in the same room; a small hallway leads to my bedroom, a bathroom, a laundry room - that I honestly never use since I prefer the laundry service - and a small studio with a desk, an armchair, and a bookcase.

I should find comfort in this apartment, within these walls, but the thought of the apartment that I left three years ago often comes back to remind me what I lost. The most bizarre decision of my life. I would love to bang my head against the wall but instead, I go to the bathroom to take a shower and then I go straight to bed. I turn on the red lamp on the nightstand and take a long sip of water hoping not to wake up during the night.

Staring at the ceiling, I let myself think about the person I used to be, the phantasmagoric life I used to crave for just a few years ago. I would never give him up with hindsight, blaming myself for missing out on our projects together. Yet, I easily ran away because I wanted to stand on my own two feet. I yearned for independence, self-reliance - to me, self-preservation. Being together was inexplicably a limit, not a boost.

I left behind the only person I have ever truly loved without him suspecting anything or, at least, without giving him prior notice. I was unsatisfied with myself and I heaped my untold frustration and misery on him. It is funny to admit that he only hoped to see me successful, healthy, satisfied. Still, I do not get the reason why I felt this way when I had him next to me, so close to me, since he never tried to stop or criticize my quite primal instinct to chase after the whole world and devour it in its entirety.

He is back in town. Today as three years ago, today as yesterday, I let him land on my heart once again for a fraction of a second. So close and yet so distant.

I close my eyes.

He is back in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Unforgettable by Nat King Cole


	3. The Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's the point of dwelling on living a life you're never going to have? My life is the one I'm living right now, not the one I've never lived."
> 
> or
> 
> Jimin's conversation with Jin gives him a lot to think about while his relationship with Mallory worsens.

Please someone explains to me why I decided to do this job. Today is Friday, the busiest day of the week besides Monday, and I do not feel like I am going to be able to withstand all this pressure. Here in the editorial room, we are currently making the final adjustments to the last book of a depressing trilogy that must be ready to go to print within the shortest time. I do not want to work on it and, honestly, Seokjin is not making it any easier.

" _Dreams and Enchantment - The bet_ , the last new intriguing chapter of a trilogy for adventurous and tireless women. A made in USA best-selling book with more than 200,000 copies sold," Seokjin reads what is written on the blurb of the book. "More than 200,000 copies... They must be kidding me!"

"Apparently not, hyung. But I do share your frustration. Please, remind me what I did wrong that I have to work on the book series _Women and Great Love Stories_ ," I say even more frustrated.

"Lucky for me, I'm only in charge of the translation from English to Korean. Unlike you, I don't have to care of everything else and I thank all Gods and Goddesses of all religions for this," Seokjin says happy as a clam.

Seokjin loves his job as a translator in our editorial team and, unlike many other translators out there, he is not a freelancer. In fact, he has a permanent contract with the publishing house we work for. This means that he does not have to worry about the precarious working conditions that his unsigned fellow colleagues face daily. He can allow himself to get comfortable on the chair with his Mac on his desk and fantasize about his not-so-uncertain tomorrow.

"If I'd known that being an editor meant having more displeasure than pleasure, I'd have given up right from the start." And it is so true, even if I really used to love my job when I started.

"Even right now, you prefer to feel sorry for yourself rather than get a move on. Now you want to quit your job too? How are you going to pay your bills? Payment in kind?"

"I could offer my body as payment in kind," I reply teasingly while Seokjin is rolling his eyes; then I sigh. "Hyung, you know that I'd never do any other job. Maybe I'd focus only and exclusively on writing but I can't see how this might help me to make ends meet. Anyway, I wish I could decide which literary genre to work on, that's all. I've had enough of trite romance novels!"

"You can always discard them by sneakily giving them to Mallory."

"You really want her to dump me, don't you?"

"YES!" he yells and we both laugh.

When the laughter ends, I go back to work: I finish re-reading the notes on the paper copy made by the proofreader and then I send a few emails. I also contact our graphic designer to discuss the book layout and agree upon the cover. As usual, the author of the trilogy is not pleased with our suggestion about the book cover, though. Fearing for my mental health, I will let my assistant Spencer handle this - maybe the only American employee in the publishing house. And, honestly, I do not really care about his mental health at all.

I call Mr. Mazowska, the editor in chief, a Polish immigrant who came to the United States after the Great War. He is a scrupulous man with a surly attitude who is like a bear with a sore head and always speaks with a forked tongue. If his personality is not ideal, his aspect is even worse. His body does not make him look more docile: his constantly frowning greyish eyebrows seem to be connected directly to his hairline; his curled mouth lends him an air of menacing toughness; his aquiline nose seems to raise itself to unexpected heights as if it never wants to stop growing. But it is definitely his impatient and predominant voice that makes him insufferable.

"Jimin, I was just thinking about you."

What an honor. "Mr. Mazowska, I've just finished the final reading of the last chapter of Mrs. Adams' trilogy. I've already contacted the graphic designer to agree upon the cover but we have a situation with Mrs. Adams."

"I suppose that old bat doesn’t agree with our suggestion on a less tacky cover. She's the usual scumbag."

I sneer but nevertheless getting along with him right now really bothers me. "Yes, sir. She asked for a cover with a floral background and love birds in the foreground once again."

"That woman... I accepted to publish her books because I was sure that a shameful multitude of readers would love that garbage." Can't say I blame him. "Unfortunately, all that counts are the cash nowadays. Anyway, any other updates?"

"The promotional sheets about the book are almost ready and I'm going to schedule all presentations around the city and write press releases on Monday. Considering the market research of the previous months, we've already identified a suitable audience for all events."

"Let me guess: cat ladies, in their mid to late 40s, probably divorced and with a part-time job?"

"Worse," I simply said unconvincingly. "Concerning the distribution, I'll tell Spencer to send you a complete and updated list of suppliers."

"Good. You have to reach out to the press as soon as possible to agree upon the reviews as well. Not that reviewing that garbage is possible anyway..."

"Yes, sir. I'll do it," I try to say but he has already hung up.

I have known Mr. Mazowska for approximately six years. After obtaining my American-Korean dual degree in Literature and Intercultural Communication in Seul, I moved to New York when I was 22, and then I started working for him. In all these years, promotion after promotion, I have become an editor. I started doing this job because I have always loved reading, getting lost in worlds so far distant from mine.

However, the truth is that working in an editorial room is a very different reality from the one I had been imagining during my never-ending study nights at university. Love reading does not automatically make you a good editor. And although I can say I am a good editor, today that sparkle which used to excite me at the dawn of my career while packing my briefcase does not exist anymore.

"Hello?"

“Hi, Demi," I say friendly. Demi is a beautiful Canadian literary agent of the same age who I talk to every day for work-related issues - and personal issues as well since she is one of my dearest friends. Moreover, she deals with public relations for a private agency here in New York and I call her to plan public events for book promotions.

“Hey, Jimin! How are you, handsome?”

I chuckle. "Ten times better now that I hear your voice."

She seems pleased. “So cheesy. I guess you need me for planning a presentation for that literary abomination."

"Correct. Great juxtaposition of words, by the way."

“I make a living with words, sweetheart. You're lucky 'cause I've already thought about some venues. I say we start with random literary salons, apparently in vogue right now. Attendees are predominantly women and this type of setting allows to establish a direct approach between writer and readers. Then, we'll start with presentations in bookstores."

"Awesome, Demi. You're the best."

“I know, honey.” I laugh overwhelmed by her good spirits and sense of humor.

"Are you going to be there as well?"

"If aliens don't abduct me nor some natural disaster occurs, I guess I have to."

I laugh once again. "What about the literary salons?"

"No way."

"I must admit that I can't picture you seating on a couch while sipping your cup of tea and chatting about forbidden loves, caricature-like characters, and anything-but-erotic experiences."

"Well said. You know me well. I love crime. I want detectives, corpses, twists, and turns. I grew up reading Patricia Cornwell's books. We all need more women like Kay Scarpetta in our lives!"

"Didn't she also become a mass phenomenon as well?" I ask ironically puzzled.

"Shh, if you don't say it, nobody figures it out. I'll send you the list of all the places soon. Bye, dear."

“Thank you, Demi. See you.” I hang up and get back to work. I write to some literary critics and ask them when it will be possible to have their reviews of the book. I am almost ashamed of asking them. What kind of review they can give us about a book like this? But then I remember the trilogy had been a New York Times Best Seller for two years in a row. Life is odd for sure.

A few hours later, Seokjin and I go down to the cafeteria on the first floor and seat at the usual spot next to the stained-glass window. We wait for our orders and in the meantime, we look at hundreds of passers-by walking like small ants on the sidewalks, crossing the streets, blending together. In all of this, cars and cabs barely respect the traffic lights and crazily speed like a swarm of bees.

"I've been living here for ten years and I still can't get used to this mess," Seokjin says in disbelief. 

"Sometimes I forget that you, Joon, Yoongi, and Hobi came here 10 years ago. Four thirty-year-old Koreans in New York," I say in a neutral tone but Seokjin raises an eyebrow. "What I meant is that you look good for your age!" I add quickly.

"Gamsa for reminding me how old I am, which makes me realize how immature I am for not thinking about having any child yet," Seokjin explains a little too much melodramatic. My old, childish hyung.

"Just because you're 30 and you're married, it doesn't mean you must have a baby. Don't put yourself under pressure."

"Look who's talking, the guy who can't keep anybody around!" Seokjin says sardonically. "Of course I'm under pressure since even Joon, who isn't married and is the same age, is having a child with Subin. Not a child but twins actually! Twins in one fell swoop!" he adds putting his face in his hands. "Maybe my sperm is bad or defective or maybe Minseo is sterile, or maybe-"

"Hyung! Gue-man-ha-sae-yo! You're rambling and you know it. You and Minseo have never discussed having a child so far, so why are you thinking about it right now?” I ask him amused and incredulous.

"You right," Seokjin chuckles. "I've never thought about having a baby before but I've just thought about it and panicked. I'm 30 and I'm still a child. I'm sure Minseo can't handle another one."

Finally, we get our orders and we sit in silence for a while. The only sounds I hear are the cabs honking from outside, the plates and glasses tinkling on the tables in the cafeteria. I devour my portion of Lasagne Bolognesi while Seokjin finishes his ramen. Obviously.

“Hey, hyung, have you ever asked yourself how your life would have been if you had stayed in Korea?” I ask curiously.

"Aish, why are you asking me this, Jimin? Are you getting cold feet in your 30s?" he replies ironically.

"I'm still 28, gamsa a lot, hyung." I roll my eyes. "I've just thought... It's weird that we all met here in the States instead of Korea. Tae and I moved here when we were 20 and then we were joined by-" I cut off. "Well, you know... And if we hadn't come to New York, we wouldn't have met you and the others."

"Obviously, I'd say! When you two moved here, we had already come to New York four years before!" Seokjin says and laughs. "Koreans to the rescue!"

"Please, be serious for once! Do you ever think about it?"

"What do you want me to say, Jimin? Yeah, I've thought about it. Honestly? Only a few times. What's the point of dwelling on living a life you're never going to have? My life is the one I'm living right now, not the one I've never lived. There's no time machine. Even if I'd really like to have one to stop my 18-year-old self from dyeing his hair yellow. Fucking yellow!" he snorts. "Have you ever seen my grad photos? Awfully awful."

I laugh because for him these are the real issues. "Hyung, you're impossible."

"Yeah, but you can't live without me. I'm irresistible!" he adds proudly. "Anyway, Jimin, don't think about the 'what it would be like if.' There's no going back. Just focus on what you want in the here and now, actually. Or _hic et nunc_ if you prefer." He winks at me.

"Is it Namjoon?” I ask amazed by his Latin motto and then I add, "It's not that easy..."

"It's easy if you don't make it difficult." Truer words have never been spoken. "So, firstly, stop acting like this and break up with Mallory. You'll do both yourself and her a favor. Secondly, ask your boss to change the editorial series and work on something you're really interested in. You've been working here for six years, god damn it. It's time to make the first request."

"I'll try, hyung."

"No, hyung, you won't try it: you do it. Just get it done, for God's sake!" Seokjin may be childish, but he is probably the wisest when he tries. Maybe even wiser than Namjoon. Maybe.

The conversation turns to other topics and we stay there for another half an hour. We go up to the 12th floor again back to the office and we start our routine. I answer some phone calls and check random emails. Then, I ask Spencer to go this way and that way and I scold him every time he does something wrong - and also when he does not even make a mistake. I have to toughen him up. I should feel guilty but I would be lying if I said I did not feel a sort of evil pleasure in doing so. Sorry, Spencer.

At the end of the day, I breathe a sigh of relief, glad I can finally go home. But suddenly, I remember that Mallory came back this morning and this means that I only have two hours before going to her place to have dinner - the ritual dinner we have every time she returns from San Diego. I greet Seokjin, I give Spencer some death stare for no reason, and head to the elevator. I put my ear-buds to listen to some music and get out of the main entrance before making my way home.

“ _Sometimes in our lives we all have pain; we all have sorrow. But if we are wise, we know that there's always tomorrow_.”

If I am wise enough, I will be able to change my tomorrow. It is too bad that I have been trying for years. When I left Seul, I was a confused and unruly young man. A few months before, I fell for a guy who was two years younger than me. It was not my first relationship, since I had spent my youth restlessly fucking around. Yet somehow, I saw in him the relief I had been looking for, that sort of kindness like a sweet breeze blowing all over you. I fell so hard for him that I accepted to be in a long-distance relationship.

Three years back and forth between New York and Seul every two or three months for at least a week. Then two years together in a two-room flat in Greenwich Village, too small for a couple but big enough for two young and bold Korean fools like us. Two lovers without money but full of enthusiasm. I smile at the thought. All this until my 26th birthday, before I became once again the adolescent version of Park Jimin - or for the first time the adult version of Park Jimin deceptively ready to face the unknown. I often tell myself that I have already been through my midlife crisis.

"Hello?" I answer the phone lost in my thoughts.

"Jimin, I wanted to remind you about dinner tonight."

"Mallory, yeah. I know. Don't worry."

"Good. See you soon."

I grumble the entire way home. After taking my shower, I wear khaki trousers and a beige shirt with a blazer. Then I put on my coat and gloves, wrap my red scarf around my neck and I am ready to face my destiny.

For two people who are supposed to be together, it is not easy to see each other that often if this means you have to go back and forth between Williamsburg and Hell's Kitchen, especially if you have been dying to see each other as soon as possible. But apparently, this urge does not exist. While heading to her place, I enter a wine shop to get a bottle of red wine. Finally, I reach my destination. I ring the doorbell and get in when the door opens.

"There you are." Mallory hugs me and takes my coat.

"Welcome back, Mal," I say with a kiss on her cheek. "I got you a good Cabernet Sauvignon, just how you like it." I give her the bottle.

Mallory takes it and looks at me amused. "Jimin, the Pinot Noir is my favorite. You always forget!" Oddly, she laughs. Good sign.

We go to the kitchen; I seat at the table and open the bottle. In the meantime, Mallory removes the pork from the oven and serves it with potatoes and salad. We start eating quietly, both too hungry to interact. After a while, she starts chatting and talks about her project in San Diego and how tired she is of flipping around. She says she would like to take a well-deserved vacation especially in view of Christmas, even if it is over a month and a half away.

"When will your project be over?" I ask out of courtesy, not curiosity.

"I guess in mid-December and then I'll be free. When vacation days start, we should go on a trip. How come we never went anywhere in a year?" she asks in disbelief. I can sense that she hopes to go this time. I am sorry I cannot make her happy.

"I don't know, Mal. I don't think it's possible, honestly. I've to work on the launch of the book I talked to you about a while ago and I've to meet editors and talent scouts for new editorial proposals. Not to mention all press conferences and the sale of strennas for the Christmas market. I'll have little time available. I'm probably the only one working more rather than less on Christmas vacations." I sigh while looking at her to make her understand that I do not like to see her unhappy. I pat her on her hand. "I'd like to go on a trip to cut loose and have some fun, though. I promise I'll try to get out of work as soon as possible."

"You always say that but we never go anywhere in the end."

Our conversation ends like this. We get up, I help Mallory wash the dishes and we move from the kitchen to the living room. There, we turn on the TV and drink our glasses of wine in absolute silence. I sense her aversion but I do nothing to comfort her. I have never been good at this. After a long frustrating hour of absolute silence, I give up and try to reason with her by explaining that her attitude is immature since I am not able to go on a trip due to work reasons.

"Me? Immature? Jimin, you're working forever and always. And it'll probably be like this for life. We've seen each other for a little over a year and we've never ever had time for us as a couple. Maybe only the first two months. I never see you anymore."

"Mal, we never see each other because it's true, I work and I work a lot, but it doesn't help that you're always away for some project. First Los Angeles, then Malibu, now San Diego," I act very childishly. She is right and I do not want to admit it.

Mallory seems to lose her temper. "And what should I do, Jimin? Quit my job? Flush the only thing that really makes me happy down the toilet?" She sighs. "Even when I'm here for longer, we don't hang out that often. So, please explain to me why I should quit my job to stay at home all the time if then I don't see you anyway."

It is true. I do not even know how to fight back, therefore I play innocent. "Come on, Mal! You know it's not like that. I want to see you. The only problem is my fast-paced work life."

"Jimin, you basically live in your office and if you're not there, you're at _The Django_ or with your friends. You even have friends at work, for God's sake! When do I step in? Why are we still _hanging out_ if you never- if we never have enough time on our hands?" she asks disdainfully. At this point, she is seriously pissed off and, when she is like that, I suddenly remind myself how much I like seeing her this way. A sickening feeling. I like her frowny face, the bittersweet pitch of her voice, those dimples showing up on her cheeks when she grinds her teeth.

I know Mallory through Demi since fall last year. We all were at an indie rock band concert. That night, Hoseok and Yoongi had basically dragged me with them and at the bar counter, I met Demi who was chatting excitedly with a blonde woman. Her unconventional, almost androgynous beauty captured my attention. Those bright eyes; an intent, sharp look. Something about her pushed me to buy her a drink before asking her number.

At the very beginning, our relationship was all peaches and cream. Wild sex on every socially acceptable occasion; dinners at the finest restaurants in the city; deep conversations about extravagant exhibitions and expensive wine tasting events. This is exactly the reason why she intrigued me: her overwhelming love for art and wine. I was also genuinely curious about her job as an architect. Every time she came back, she always had something to tell. And I used to pay attention in a careful way, happy to take my mind off of a ghost from the past.

Mallory was a good antidote against uncomfortable memories during our first period together. I felt like a helium balloon ready to fly away, but she gently held the wire. However, after this deceptive initial moment, misunderstandings took over due to character incompatibility and brief occasional encounters. We were basically never able to see each other that much. We spent all our moments together mainly waltzing on the sheets. Not a good method to know more about and fully understand a person, to be honest.

"Mal, you don't have to step in. You're already part of my life, so please stop it right now," I say tentatively trying to talk some sense into her.

"Jimin, don't bullshit me!" she rants getting off the couch. "You probably think I'm stupid and, honestly, it doesn't matter. Fine. But I'm not crazy or blind! I see how you act around me, you fool! We don't ask each other for advice any longer like we used to. When I point out something I don't like about you, you always say I'm overreacting and-"

"Mal..."

"No, please, let me finish. You say I'm overreacting and I'm a pain in the ass - not exactly these words but I know you mean it. Even your friends share your same opinion and you don't do anything to make them realize that you're the asshole!"

Honestly speaking, Seokjin and Namjoon barely stand her, Taehyung does not really pay attention to her even if he is always friendly and Yoongi has probably met her once in a year. And he does not talk that much anyway. Both of them does not dislike her, they simply keep their distance because they are aware that ours is not an established relationship. Lastly, Hoseok does not count because that man cannot create controversy or judge someone without knowing them. He would even love the devil himself.

"You make me be like this!" She is right again. I am the one who neglects or runs away from her. I do nothing but feed this unease between us. She does not deserve it no matter what. She is a self-made, brilliant, charismatic woman. She is worthy of more respect and care. "What? News blackout? I'm talking to you!" she finally says aggressively.

"Sorry, Mal. You know how I am. You know I make mistakes almost every day but I can't give you more and I'm sorry, deeply sorry. You want something from me that I'm unable to provide you. I can't give you something that I don't even have. It's a simple, yet cruel truth. Take it or leave it," I say a bit taken aback while secretly struggling more than I let on. I do not want or like to see her like that.

"I don't like ultimatums, Jimin," she says before turning her back and leaving the room.

The night goes on once again in absolute silence. I watch a movie alone on the couch, still no sign of Mallory. Not that I have tried to look out for her. When the end credits appear on the screen, I get up and head to the front door. I take my coat and open the door ready to go home but I am suddenly pulled aside by an arm. Mallory has probably heard me leaving and now she pulls me towards her. She wants to calm things down or simply pretend that we can still procrastinate the inevitable by doing exactly what we are best at. 

She kisses me while taking my clothes off and touching me everywhere. Perhaps she knows that it is the only means at her disposal to feel me closer. Most of the night goes on between moans and deep thrusts with the bed slamming against the wall. I thrust and sink at the same time. Neither one of us speaks the other's name when we reach the ultimate pleasure. We sleep far apart and when the morning comes, I am saddened to see that face which is supposed to be familiar but it is, in fact, completely unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s song: Lean on me by Bill Withers


	4. The Manuscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Leave the sand shore where you’ve run aground, hyung, and come back home. Let yourself get carried away by the call of your old self like Ulysses enchanted by the siren’s song."
> 
> or
> 
> Jimin faces his demons and gives up on something he has been working on for a long time. Taehyung offers him a shoulder to cry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter has been so hard. I hope you enjoy it and appreciate the style. It's been a long journey!

For the first time in the last few months, I finally find a spare moment to work on my manuscript. It is Sunday and, in contrast with the typical local weather conditions in October, an unusual, unprecedented blizzard is getting crazy outside. The only thing I want to do is be curled up under a blanket on my desk chair. I switch my iPhone to airplane mode and for a few hours, I disconnect from the rest of the world.

As it often happens to writers or those who are not conceited enough to define themselves as such, I have ended up in a creative limbo. I started writing this manuscript on and off some years ago but I cannot go on. Everything seems forced and abysmal. Every word I type seems a lie; all sentences are meaningless. I re-read some pages and I have this feeling of messing around with my hypothetical readers. Even a blind man would sense the deceit: this manuscript does not tell but hide.

It is not the first time that I try to write something thicker. During my youth, I had written the typical personal journals of teenagers struggling basically with everything in their young lives. The journals were small rectangular notebooks that I used to buy once a month in a stationery shop close to my home in Busan.

The owner, Mr. Doyun, promptly left a notebook on the shop counter next to the cash register every first Monday of the month. Coming back to school, he patiently waited for me at the entrance of his shop before closing. He set aside his desire to rush home to finally eat a hot meal for the sake of my happiness. He always complimented me on my interest in writing and never missed an opportunity to remind me that he truly was my biggest fan.

Mr. Doyun used to tell me that many had been trying to disprove the usefulness of writing for centuries because it was stupidly assumed that it would damage both memory and oratory. In ancient times, stories were mostly narrated orally and rarely on paper. In this regard, he told me the myth of Theuth in _Phaedrus_ by Plato, a great Greek philosopher. Even though Plato was a literary man and was a writer himself, he, for one, feared that writing could undermine knowledge and, consequently, the fine art of oratory.

I found myself completely lost in every single story or anecdote told by Mr. Doyun. I savored his words and, through those, I was teleported in very distant ages. Therefore, I could live in the wild Gaul in Roman times. I could be an Egyptian pharaoh surrounded by his loyal cats, sacred animals at that time. I could travel to the West Indies aboard one of the Spanish carracks to the conquest of new territories. I could discover the Silk Road with spice merchants en route for exotic China...

To preserve all the experiences, I had lived through Mr. Doyun's words. I wrote them down, black ink on white paper, or I re-lived them in greater detail in my dreams. Park Jimin, a child always eager to have great adventures, always looking for new stimuli. I could go days and days without eating or drinking because the writing process was my oasis in the arid desert of my life. It was my daily bread.

Being a child in full growth was not that easy: I tried and tried to express myself through words to make up for my lack of ability to face emotions. Writing rescued me. I am usually more honest and freer when I have my thoughts and feelings on paper. In this way, I do not fear the judgment of others and, above all, I cannot lie to myself. Or at least it used to be like that. In front of a white sheet of paper, there is only my conscience and I. To escape from it, I could come up with some loopholes but my words, like ropes, have always held me. Jimin, you can fool yourself for brief intervals but you cannot escape.

By growing up, I went from diaries to journals, from prose to poetry and epistles. I wrote short essays, novellas, and novels if it is fair enough to describe them as such. I tried everything more or less. However, I found greater comfort in writing letters. My recipients were usually my mother or some suitors. Even if I had felt vulnerable or defenseless while writing them, I delivered some of these letters in person and I never regretted it.

Concerning this aspect, I really hate being vulnerable and this is exactly why I wriggle out from anyone who tries to stay by my side. I have always had this incredible double-edged sword. On one hand, I run away from who loves me as we were playing tag: someone tries to catch me and I do not let them catch me not to lose. On the other hand, I am the light attracting the moths: who loves me inexplicably does not have a choice but get closer and burn. And I do not lose, once again. But it is exactly in not losing that I lose all the time. I have always been like this as if it is a curse more than a point in my favor. This is what I have described as "the Jimin's effect" during the years: half a blessing, half a curse.

I wish I could be more honest facing my manuscript and write about my fear, anxieties, failures of these last three years. I wish I could paint with words all scenarios etched in my memory, all situations lived with both weakness and fierceness. I wish I could talk about love without any filter, shamelessly honest. But how can I do that if I am the one sowing the seeds of suffering? My hypothetical readers would eventually understand that I am my own enemy and I would feel vulnerable. I refuse this feeling.

Time goes by. I stare at the manuscript; it stares at me. I check the time and peer out from the curtains a yelling child being chased by his mother while his father is desperately grabbing them both not to let them be wiped out by the furious wind. I wish I could be like that man in my everyday life: grabbing someone to save them from harshness; being shield and buckler at the same time. I should learn how to save myself first, though.

Scattered pages of the manuscript are still lying on my desk, patiently exposing themselves: happy memories of a love story that does not exist anymore because of me. What were those memories? Why do I barely remember them? I am trying to recall these moments to see if they were that happy for real or if it is just me who describe them this way only because they are stuck in the past and I am desperately craving for it right now. Since I gave up everything, was I unhappy, wasn't I?

I do not have an answer right now: I am honestly frustrated. I get angrier while still staring at those damn pages. Therefore, I stand up and shout. It is a roar of desperation and confusion. I start wandering around my apartment, my thoughts are blurry messy. I have kept years of lies in a stupid book that will never see the light; a book that does not reveal who I am since I even hide from myself.

On my desk, there is the only written evidence of the happiest and most difficult five years of my whole life and not a single page does mention the misery of the last three years without him, instead. As usual, I run away even from my own actions. It is hard to write down the worst version of myself, that part of me that I constantly refuse but I am not able to let go of.

In a fit of rage, I take the manuscript and I start tearing out all the pages, one by one. A feeling of both freedom and agony pervades the room with every tear. I do not know what I am freeing myself from or what this feeling that is ripping me open really is. I keep tearing out all the pages tangled up in an unstoppable frenzy. Then, I throw all the pieces in the air and watch them fall to the ground. I step out of my studio and I promise myself not to write ever again. I collapse on my bed and finally close my itchy eyes.

When I wake up, reality strikes shortly afterward like a Rocky Marciano's Gazelle Punch. The only existing copy of the manuscript is gone. A technophobe myself, I never use a laptop to write in my spare time - I have to when I am at the office for obvious reasons, though. I write everything by hand until I cannot move my wrist and the white knuckles of my hands are so stiff that I cannot hold a pen anymore.

In utter disbelief, I go back to my studio just to be sure that none of this happened a few hours ago. I am saddened to see that I am proved wrong. I cannot take my eyes off the bits of shredded paper on the floor, the desk, and the chair as well. Those bits are the clear and absolute proof that I will never get rid of the worst part of myself. A written love story full of happy memories now rests in peace. The white bits from above look like gravestones in contrast with the dark floor. I stare at them and I silently grief while trapped in this unholy cemetery.

To avoid a panic attack, I take my iPhone and turn off the airplane mode. After that, an incredible burst of notifications appears on the screen: seven different calls and 89 texts in the group chat. Since I do not know what is going on, I decide to call Hoseok.

"Are you going to scare the hell out of me?" he yells on the phone. "I was going to scour all New York City to find you. You know that I get hysterical if I do not hear from you for more than two hours!" Our mother hen strikes again.

I laugh with little enthusiasm. "Hobi, relax. Unfortunately for you, I'm still pretty much alive. I was sleeping."

"Sleeping? But it's Sunday!" says the one who never sleeps.

"So?!”

"People don't sleep on Sundays," he simply replies.

"Hobi, you never sleep regardless," I explain while looking away from the slaughter in front of my eyes.

"Touché. Come on, sleepyhead. It's snowing outside but the blizzard has passed so I convinced the Korean gang to spend an evening all together. For some mystical reasons, none of us have plans for the night or we simply made out an excuse."

"We needed a blizzard to bring us together," I mumble sardonically.

Hoseok chuckles. “Apparently, yeah, Jiminie.”

"I don't know, Hobi. I don't think I'm down for it right now. I messed it all up this afternoon and I don't want to set foot outside this house for the rest of my life." Such a drama queen.

For a few seconds Hoseok does not reply then he simply asks, "What have you done?"

I sigh heavily. "I destroyed the manuscript, hyung. I literally ripped it apart."

"You what?" he yells again. "I can't believe it! What got into you, hyung? Please don't tell me it's the one about you and-"

"Exactly that one."

Silence. "Okay, what is needed here is a punitive expedition. Stay right where you are. The others and I will be there in a nanosecond." And before I can reply, he cut off the call. Hoseok, my ray of sunshine.

Taking a shower seems to be a good way to kill some time, especially if it does not make me think about my insane gesture. Before I step in the shower, I put my favorite playlist _Dear Old Days_ on Spotify. One of the songs starts and, when I hear the lyrics, I deeply regret not choosing one myself.

“ _Strange you changed like night and day, just up and walked away_.”

I wonder how he felt when I left him too busy thinking and caring about me the whole time after our break-up as if two people were not involved in the same relationship. I barely stopped a second to pay attention to the feelings of the love of my life. Isn't this ironic? Every day I sink into an ocean of sorrow each time I turn off the switch next to my nightstand without even realizing that my sorrow is not even comparable to the one I caused.

“ _Strange you're still in all my dreams. Oh, what a funny thing I still care for you_.”

I would like to ask him if it is still the same for him, if he still cares for me, or if his mind brings me back to him sometimes. I get some kind of perverse pleasure out of the suggestion that he might think about me. My memory flies back to his genuine way of doing things or to how thoughtful he could be without expecting anything in return. He used to protect and defend me all the time. He gave his virginity to a man like me who had already given and taken.

I close my eyes and, under running hot water, I start to jerk off. Up and down, faster and faster, I reach my climax and I feel my toes curling up. When my hand stops moving, I still imagine his face and silently scream his name. It echoes in the back of my mind. I feel like a nun kneeling in front of the altar of a church reciting the Holy Rosary in worship.

After the intrapersonal intercourse, I get dressed in a hurry. Then, I dry my hair and see myself reflected in the mirror. Still that fuck-face ever since I was born. If I am still the same person, why do I barely recognize myself? I inhabit this body but I am still a host.

Finally, the doorbell rings, and I run to open the door as if my friends can defend me from a monster's attack inside my own apartment. The door opens and my friends stand there: a jumble of colors, hairstyles, and clothes amidst the hustle and bustle of their loud voices. All of them equally handsome, differently charming, genuinely human.

"Well, look who it is! The fugitive!" Seokjin cries out stepping inside.

"Annyeong, Jimin. You look awful." Gamsa, Yoongi. "We didn't want to bother you but Hoseok didn't accept any objection." He pats me on the shoulder and goes directly to the living room.

All of them get in holding Chinese takeaway bags and lay around: some of them in the kitchen, others in the living room.

"Unfortunately, I can only stay for dinner, Jimin-ssi. I've to go to university early tomorrow and I want to help Subin pack lunch," Namjoon says.

"I've to leave early as well but I'll probably end up sleeping on your couch as usual," Yoongi adds with his typical stoic expression, and we all laugh.

"You're hopeless, Yoongi. Surprisingly enough, you're a rapper but you're energetic like a sloth," Seokjin sneers.

"Leave my Suga alone, Jin!" An amicably outraged Taehyung swoops in. "You should cherish a man of art who makes no secret of his habits."

"Listen, Picasso. The rapper here may also be a man of art but that doesn't exclude a matter of fact: he's a grandpa in disguise with golden chains around his neck and tattoos on his arms," Seokjin points out and makes everybody laugh again.

Yoongi laughs as well. "Don't worry, Tae. I don't care in the slightest."

"These plebeians..." Taehyung comments sarcastically. We all roll our eyes except an amused Yoongi who is laughing up his sleeve.

The conversation goes on and addresses different topics. As mentioned earlier, Namjoon leaves soon after dinner and, as usual, Yoongi is asleep on the couch. However, this time he is not alone: Seokjin keeps him company by literally drooling on his side.

"So, who's the grandpa?" Taehyung asks rhetorically while looking at them. Hoseok and I look at them as well and we both chuckle.

"Listen, Jimin. I know you don't want to talk about-" Hoseok tries to say.

"We don't need to talk then."

Taehyung rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a grump and listen. In the meantime, I give you a great back massage so you get more... compliant," he adds and then proceeds.

Hoseok smiles. "I was just about to ask, Mr. Grumpy... Could it be that the manuscript thing has something to do with-"

"No," I say dryly interrupting Hoseok.

"Park Jimin! You don't even know what he was about to ask you. Behave yourself!" Taehyung scolds me.

"Why did you tear apart your manuscript, Jiminie?" Hoseok asks. Before answering, I look at Taehyung who does not bat an eye, and then I understand that he already knows what happened this afternoon.

"I don't know, Hobi. A fit of rage, I guess," I reply in one go while staring at Hoseok's kind smile. It is not fair: when he smiles like this, he knows that I cannot hold back. "I had this feeling of writing a bunch of corny lies or some shit about love without being one hundred percent honest. Those corny things have remained prisoners of the past. I simply freaked out."

"Yeah, I guessed so." He does not say anything else and looks at me worryingly. I already know what he is thinking even before he adds, "This is why I'm almost dead sure it has something to do with the newcomer in the city." He gently strokes my hair and goes on, "Listen, hyung. I'm worried about you. We all are, actually. Every year when Christmas time is coming up, you're particularly restless even more so this year, since you know he's closer than you thought."

“Hobi, I…” I am a massive web of confusion. “I don't know what to say.”

"You don't have to say a thing, you silly," Taehyung says. "Your eyes speak for you. Your tense muscles speak for you, actually!" he adds trying to defuse the situation.

"Tae-ssi is right, Jiminie," but he does not add anything else. He knows that I need more time. "I just wanted to tell you that he'd texted us asking to see as all." I look at him dumbstruck. "He didn't specifically ask about you, whether for sensitivity or pride, but deep down I know that he'd like to see you again."

From bad to worse. I do not think I am ready. A coward myself, I try to run away once again. "I don't know, Hobi. I don't think I want to." _I do not think I am able to_ is what I would like to say instead.

"Just think about it, okay?" Hoseok asks and the conversation ends there.

After a few minutes, an impatient Taehyung wakes Yoongi and Seokjin up and we decide to play Monopoly. Five thirty-year-old Koreans - or almost thirty - are sitting on the floor dealing with rent payments, jailbreaks, and mortgages. We spend a cozy evening like the old times until it is getting late. Yoongi, Seokjin, and Hoseok get ready to go while Taehyung is looking at me intently. Then, he asks me if he can sleepover.

"Of course, hyung. What's the point of having a toothbrush here if you hardly ever use it?" I point out amused and happy to have someone staying overnight. I love being on my own but I hate sleeping alone.

“Gamsa, Jiminie. I really missed our sleepovers!"

Yoongi and Taehyung share the same loft in Tribeca and we rarely have a chance to sleep over each other’s place. Despite this, every time we manage to do so, we sleep together like back in high school and university.

Taehyung is my partner in crime and my platonic soulmate. It has always been like that. He cannot judge anybody a priori and he easily accepts both life’s negativity and positivity, always eager to savor them in the same way. Like an eagle with his prey, he memorizes every single detail and observes his surroundings with an attentive and perceptive gaze.

After everybody is gone, we clean up and put on our pajamas. When we both lay on my bed, I put my arm around his shoulders and ask, “Tae-ssi, do you remember when we had been sleeping for a whole semester on the same bed after a cockroach jumped on you out of the blue?”

“Oh gosh, yeah!” he says horrified. “For a whole semester on the same bed! I still have nightmares! I really don’t get why Kafka wrote a novel about that repulsive beast!”

“Well, isn’t the cockroach the most repulsive animal on the planet?”

He sighs. “It pains me to say that there’s beauty in the cockroach as well,” he adds resigned. “I really envy his resilience: it never gets discouraged even if it’s esthetically unappealing. I only despise it because it basically attacked me, not willingly I’m sure, but still. However, I don’t hold a grudge against it.”

“You’re magnanimous to the core, as usual, hyung,” I say amused. I pause for a second and then add, “I admire you for this, you know. You always see the good in everyone and everything even when it seems there’s no good at all.”

“Jiminie, this isn’t about seeing the good but not letting the bad prevail. If you consider the other side of the coin, life becomes irresistible. It’s your duty to see the glass half full and not half empty.”

I focus on his words and Taehyung goes on, “Hundreds of hidden nuances exist and are almost invisible to the naked eye. We can’t see them because we aren’t able to do so or because we’re temporarily blind. When we claim not to be able, it’s not due to a lack of ability but willingness. And if we claim to be blind, that’s because most of us weren’t brought up to be patient and constant to see in further detail. That’s the secret of everything.”

As usual, I am overwhelmed by his words. And they call me the thoughtful writer! “What kind of observer do you think I am?”

“What kind of observer do you think you are?”

I dwell on it before replying, “Impatient, distant, disenchanted.” I stop for a second and then add, “Tired, unhappy, insatiable.”

Taehyung lifts his head to look at me more attentively. “All negative aspects, hyung.” He turns around and lies on his side. “Tell me something positive about you as an observer instead. Try harder.”

“There’s not much to say to be honest. I think I’m passionate, exigent, meticulous. Diligent as well. Or at least I was.” I sigh deeply. “I used to be like this, Tae. I wish I could say the same thing about me in the present, not only referring to the past.”

“It seems like you completely forgot to add ‘melancholy’ and ‘hypercritical’ to your promising list, hyung,” Taehyung says ironically with a neutral tone. “Jiminie, you’re always that type of observer, or have you already forgotten about my words? If you aren’t able to see, it’s because you don’t make enough efforts and if you finally see and it doesn’t seem to be enough, it’s because you must practice. It’s a sort of never-ending training, you can’t afford to have long pauses in between.”

He always knows how to hit the mark. The right word at the right time in the right place. To me, he has always been like a kind mother who gently cups his son’s cheek just slapped by his own father; like the water of the baptismal font that frees the newborn from the original sin. Taehyung is both purity and innocence in their most pristine forms. Exactly what I lack in.

We stop talking for a while and fill the silence by talking with our gazes. At this very moment, to strange eyes, we might as well seem two lovers lost in a feeling greater than themselves. And honestly, we do share a feeling that men rarely experience during their lifetime: a mix of friendship and brotherhood with no rules and boundaries that transcends the traditional and abused notion of love.

Despite our incredible affinity, we never went further for the simple reason that we never needed to do so. Every time he had fallen, I caught him in my arms. Every time I had suffered, he gently whispered words of encouragement in my ear. Our bond is the purest form of love and it is more than a mere carnal need.

In retrospect, the curious thing about Taehyung is that he never lets any information about his private life leak out, even with me. He has always defended it up to the hilt – a part of his soul rarely accessible to someone. The one that he will truly love will be rewarded with this ultimate privilege.

Unlike Seokjin and Namjoon, both evidently straight, and Hoseok, openly gay, I have never known exactly what Taehyung’s sexual orientation is. I think that he has always wanted to try everything without inhibitions. He might seem like me, but unlike Park Jimin, he has always done it with absolute privacy, not for fear or shame but for self-preservation, as he usually claims. He does not dive into a sea full of fish just for the pleasure of wallowing in.

Sometimes, I suspected that he and Yoongi were having an affair but it is just my own personal assumption. On second thought, even Yoongi is not really talkative on this matter. Not for a privacy thing like Taehyung, but due to his laziness. Sharing “something more than strictly necessary” costs him greatly in terms of energy. And all of us have always accepted him the way he is with no pressure. Not that it is possible to do otherwise: Yoongi does not like arguing. He never wants any trouble and his mission is to guarantee daily pacifism without affecting anybody. It is important not to bother him. If he wants to blow off steam, he spits his rage out through his bars.

“I know you miss him.”

I do not get what he means at first. “What?”

“You’ve heard me well. I know you miss him,” and the tone of his voice admits of no excuse. “You shared five years of our lives together, two in a long-distance relationship, and three under the same roof. I challenge anyone in your place not to feel nostalgic.” He pauses. “Please, welcome this nostalgia and embrace it. Let it be part of you without being your archenemy.”

I do not reply. I feel too overwhelmed.

“If you embrace it, you can’t lose, Jiminie. Paradoxically, you’ve already lost if you want to see it that way. Now it is time to get your payback.”

And I still cannot say a single, damn thing.

Taehyung does not lose heart – he knows he has my full attention. “When I say it is time to get your payback, it doesn’t mean that everything is going to be like it used to just because he’s back. Nothing is as it was before. What’s done is done. We don’t even know if he still thinks about you and, if I knew it, I'd never tell you. You know that, hyung,” he explains without resentment.

He adds, “It’s a payback with yourself. You let yourself go like a floating carcass on the open sea. I’ve been waiting, I’ve been watching you. And you know I wouldn’t say a thing if I wasn’t worried for you.” He caresses my arm by rubbing his thumb. “Leave the sand shore where you’ve run aground, hyung, and come back home. Let yourself get carried away by the call of your old self like Ulysses enchanted by the siren’s song.”

I wish I could cry but I just can’t. I am drier than a desert. I get out of bed and I lean against the window sill. Snowflakes fall from the sky and lie on the ground whitening the tree canopies and covering the rooftops like a soft duvet.

“Tae, I wish I could find the courage to cry,” I whisper with a slight hesitation in an almost imperceptible way. Saying it out loud hurts even more.

“Cry, then. What’s so bad?”

I stare at the snowflakes. “I don’t remember how to do it,” I finally admit while furiously blushing, filled with shame.

Taehyung gets out of the bed and stands next to me. Without saying a word, he gets closer and licks one of his fingers until his saliva dribbles down the tip. Then, he gently runs his finger on my cheek from the eye to the jaw. He does the same thing on the other cheek as well. After that, he waits. He patiently waits in silence for a period of time that seems to last an eternity.

I do not know if it is because of his unexpected, unusual gesture; if it is because of his piercing eyes that stare at me with warmth and understanding as if he is trying to tell me that there is nothing to fear; if it is because of the infinite sadness that I have been carrying around for such a long time; but when I feel his saliva on my cheeks, my eyes get filled with tears. It is as if his finger dug furrows on my cheeks in which my tears can easily fall, undisturbed.

I cry and I do it quietly, almost frightened but absolutely desperate. I pour all the shame I feel for myself over these quiet, bitter tears that now look like waterfalls. Again, I think of him and the manuscript as well. A tear for each bit of paper lying dead on the floor of my studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Strange by Patsy Cline


	5. The Special Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The truth is that Mallory will never be an unforgettable kind of pain, an everlasting hole like the one he left inside this cage of flesh which is my body."
> 
> or
> 
> Jimin and Mallory spend a steamy night together and it turns into a hurtful, remorseful revelation for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my late update. I'm currently working on another Jikook fanfic and it takes so much damn time ;(

Since my liberating flood of tears with Taehyung, I have been able not to fall into a whirlwind of negative emotions. I have kept myself busy and lost track of the days. At work, I have successfully concluded negotiations with some publicists, and I have been in touch with Jacques, one of our talent scouts, to get new proposals for publication and sign contracts as soon as possible.

I managed to persuade Mrs. Adams to agree with our graphic designer a few days ago and we reached a compromise: setting aside the floral background on the cover and opting for a woman’s silhouette from behind who stares at the sunset instead of two lovebirds in the foreground. Better than nothing.

Mr. Mazowska asked me to attend a press conference about a book recently published by one of our major competitors to find out more about their current editorial strategy. You can defeat your enemies if you observe them closely, my boss is used to say, and so I did. Luckily, Demi was also attending and, instead of letting me hear what the speakers were saying, she kept distracting me by talking about the chemtrail conspiracy theory or the New World Order conspiracy theory.

The book did not seem anything special, anyway. These competitors want to launch it as a top seller at the beginning of next year’s first trimester but, honestly, the book is nothing but a banal and gross rip-off of _White Nights_ by Dostoevsky. They basically want to exhume and distort one of the masterpieces of Russian literature by pretending it is an original novel and readjusting the story in accordance with the taste of the mass audience. It is ironic since Dostoevsky wrote this short story responding to the demands of a niche market. They could have done worse than this. Or maybe not.

When Friday finally arrives, I walk out of my office feeling like a new person. I am aware I am running from my demons but, after a very long time. I just want to be carefree. After calling some friends and finding out that none of them is available tonight, I still decide to go to _The Django_ where my trusted bartender is already waiting for me.

“All by yourself tonight?” Mike asks seeing that my friends are nowhere to be found.

“Me, myself and I. Nobody was really down for celebrating.”

“Is there something to celebrate?” Mike curiously asks raising one of his eyebrows. “From the way you look tonight, I can tell you’re happier than usual. I like this side of yours.”

I laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to seduce me.” I take a sip of my drink. “I’m celebrating the greatness of my dull life.”

Mike genuinely seems confused after hearing my words. “Park Jimin, who understands you should get an award,” he says while drying some glasses on the bar counter with a towel. “Let me tell you something, man. If you really want to celebrate tonight, go get your ‘special friend’ over there,” and he encourages me with a nod to turn around and check the end of the room.

I turn around already knowing who it is: Mallory. She is sitting at a table with other people laughing all together about something which seems particularly funny. She looks cheerful and pleased, lost in the steady flow of their conversation. I look at the tablemates and all of them are in their thirties, well-dressed and with a dignified posture. They are drinking something from glass jars, the current trend in bars and restaurants – which makes me roll my eyes.

Then, I decide to reach them, particularly intrigued by one of them that I cannot see clearly because he is sitting at the table with his back to the bar counter. The more I get closer, the more I notice his built body, black curly hair, pale skin. My hands are all sweaty. What if he is…

“Jimin! What are you doing here?” Mallory asks me surprised but not irritated.

“Mal, I left the office a while ago and came here for a drink,” I reply and for the first time I look at the other three tablemates. The man I noticed from behind is not the man I hoped and feared to see.

“Come, join us! Sit here,” Mallory invites me patting a spot on her side and so I sit next to her.

We stay there for a couple of hours. The other tablemates are Mallory’s friends or colleagues: one is an engineer, the other two are interior designers. I honestly do not remember their names. We order some food and at least three rounds of whiskey after dinner. Despite the initial disappointment, the more I drink and get distracted, the more I cheer up and for a second, I have this feeling of living under someone else’s skin.

It is as if at this moment I am the lighthearted alter ego of Park Jimin: a Korean man sitting at a table with his official girlfriend – not his so-called ‘special friend’ – and a group of strangers who laughs, eats, and drinks without any concerns in the back of his mind or a heavy stone on his stomach. This Park Jimin is calm, easy-going without nothing to lose since he already has everything he needs. And he is horny as fuck, the usual effect that alcohol has on him.

When the night seems to be over – not for me at least, I convince Mallory to come to my place. She gets the hint of my arousal in my stare and voice and finally agrees. To make it faster, we decide to take a cab and, once we are in the backseat, we barely restrain ourselves from jumping on each other. We look like two drunk adolescents sneaking off their high school prom and heading for a shabby motel bedroom to have sex for the first time. Beloved stereotypes from teen-dramas.

“How long does it take him to get us there?” Mallory snorts annoyed trying to whisper but failing miserably. “At this rate, it’s already Christmas and we’re celebrating here.” I laugh.

“Sorry, ma’am. Congestion,” the taxi driver simply replies pointing at the street in front of us. He obviously heard her since she basically screamed. Even a deaf man would hear her from miles away. I laugh again.

“Stop laughing, you silly,” Mallory says pretending to be annoyed but laughing as well.

We obviously made the worst choice being clearly not lucid enough to consider that getting on a cab on a Friday night in New York is a suicide mission. At least if you do not want to be stuck in the car, of course. After almost 45 minutes waiting in the car – a time frame in which we alternatively snooze on each other’s shoulder or laugh about stupid or naughty things – we finally step inside my apartment.

“I barely remember the last time I came here, honestly,” Mallory whispers while stealing some kisses from me and unbuttoning her blouse. “We always go to my place to get laid faster.”

True. We usually go to her place because it is closer to my office or because I can easily go out directly from her place to hang around in Manhattan. Mallory has probably slept in my bed a total of ten times in a year – according to my optimistic assessments.

“Do you mind?” I ask ironically while letting her slip out of her trousers.

She does not answer but keeps kissing me as if she is starving after a long period of famine. Here comes the hungry feline that succeeded in catching me one year ago. I have always liked her stubbornness and determination. When she wants something, Mallory always seems to know how to get it in all situations against all odds. I kiss her back and take my clothes off too.

Not really paying attention to our clothes scattered around the apartment, we gently push each other to my bedroom, and skipping the foreplay, we get on with it. Mallory pulls me to her, and I am inside her in one go. She is already wet, ready for me. Mallory clings her legs to my waist capturing me and I push deeper moving my hips the way she likes the most. And I know it for sure because she is whimpering sweetly as if she did not want to bother my neighbors with unmistakable loud noises.

I lift up just a little bit to gently guide her legs on my shoulders with my hands. Then, my hands slowly move down to her hips and I hold her in place. She seems to like it damn much because she starts wincing frenetically while narrowing her eyes, her mouth half-open, a more-than-satisfied smirk on her face. We keep having sex like this for a while, gently first and then rougher and rougher. I finally look at her into her eyes and I can see she is lost in her own, private, distant pleasure.

“Jimin…”

Even if the person that I love the most is not saying my name right now, I still feel an indescribable pleasure to hear my name when it slides away from her wet, half-opened lips. The sound of my name floats around the room almost imperceptibly like a light, soft feather that gently rests on my pounding dick.

“Fuck,” I only manage to say, and I keep trusting deeper, lowering to Mallory who is now caged in my arms, always in the same position as before. _Thrust, thrust, thrust_ , I keep thinking, like a mantra, like a mechanic gesture, holding on to these thoughts not to get lost elsewhere.

Mallory tries to catch on her breath under me and moans loudly this time while grabbing on the pillow with her hands behind her head. When she finally reaches her orgasm, I follow her shortly after and falls down on her.

After a few minutes, I lift up and slip out of her; then I lay on my back next to her. One of her arms wraps around my head while I gently pose one of my hands on her belly. I stare at the ceiling focusing on my breath.

“So… You came inside this time, uh?” Mallory says. “You don’t usually do that… Well, you almost never do it actually.”

I honestly do not know how to answer. I almost decide to stay silent when I finally reply, “Are you upset?”

Mallory snorts. “Why should I be upset? It’s just that it rarely happens and so I’m surprised. That’s all. Even if I’m on the pill, you always want to have sex using condoms.”

“I care about our health.” Probably the dumbest answer ever.

“Are you implicitly saying that you worry about me sleeping around?” She asks in disbelief. “Or is it because you have sex with other women, so you don’t want to get me in trouble?” She sounds suspicious and I do not know if I am feeling upset, unbothered, or amused. Any of these reactions would make her mad anyway.

 _Other women_ , I simply repeat on my mind chuckling. “I usually stick with monogamy when I’m involved in any kind of relationship, Mal,” I reply a bit peeved. “If I’m with someone, I’m not looking out for someone else.” I sit down on the bed and look at her. “So, my answer to your implicit question is that I’m not a cheater.”

Mallory dwells on it for a while. “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean to make baseless accusations.” _Well, this is exactly what you have just done_ , I would like to say. “It’s just that I like when you come inside me. This is what I was trying to say.”

We sit on the bed staring at each other without saying a word. Couples usually cuddle after sex, hugging their loved ones as tight as they can as if they wanted to blend their bodies. Lovers look for skin contact while the smell of sex lingers over them. Lovers transport themselves to a distant dimension which only becomes accessible after they are lost in their afterglow. The bliss of sex is their paradise.

This dimension does not come to reach out for me and Mallory after we have sex. There is to say that I do not do a single thing so that this may happen, and she never makes the first move. We look like two animals sizing each other up, ready to attack first for self-defense or simply cautious not to end up being the prey. The woman in front of me remains impassive. But I know that she is coming up with something because she is looking back at me with a peculiar light in her eyes.

“Are you tired?” She asks out of the blue.

I smirk. “Is this a way to ask me if I’m ready for a second round?”

She does not answer. She simply gets closer and sits on my lap. I just let her do what she wants too curious about what she is going to do. And honestly aroused by her unexpected gesture. Mallory starts pecking me on my neck without sucking. Then, she moves to my jaw, on my cheeks. And while she keeps doing that, she takes one of my hands and puts it on one of her breasts. Her hand on mine tightens her grip.

“I want your mouth where your hand is.”

I move my head closer to her breast and keep her nipple in my mouth. I suck while holding her tightly with my free hand. I bite it and I gently flick it with my tongue, again and again. Mallory gasps and arches her back. I do the same thing with her other nipple while Mallory is pulling my hair. I keep sucking her nipples like a baby enjoys the taste of his mother’s milk.

“An-and now touch me.”

“Where do you want me to touch you, Mal?” I whisper to her ear while I feel the hairs of her arms standing up.

And with her hands, she invites me to work my way down. From her breasts, my hands gently move to her sides; my finger delicately brushes her skin like a summer breeze. Maybe the most intimate gesture we have ever shared. One of my hands rest on her butt cheek, the other moves further down between her legs. Mallory trembles. My fingers are now caressing her soft pubic hair and finally touch her warm, still wet, inviting entrance.

I curl two of my fingers in and gently start to caress her clit with circular motions. When my fingers fully get inside her, I feel her heat clenching around them. This is her way to tell me not to stop and so I do. I thrust deeper, in and out, the way she likes it. Mallory moves her hips to further accommodate my fingers and go along with my movements increasing her pleasure.

Seeing her enjoying this moment makes me think about how having sex with men and women feels, _differently_ feels like. I have been lucky enough to experience both types of pleasure and learned to appreciate them both not in the same way but with the same respect.

I usually prefer sex with men because I can fill up and be knotted up as well, although I do not dislike women’s bodies. Quite the opposite, actually. Women are made to be always worshipped, the stronger sex indeed, as far as my personal thoughts are concerned. Sex with women simply tastes differently. Regardless of gender, the fire we make is the only thing that really matters.

“Jimin, s-stop,” Mallory commands out of breath. Distracted by my own thoughts, I ask myself if I did something wrong.

“Mal?”

“I want something stronger,” she answers and grabs my wrists.

“Okay, Mal, but you should tell me what you-”

“Shh,” she interrupts me and brings my hands to her cheeks.

I look at her trying to understand. “You want to be spanked?”

“No, Jimin,” she says and now my fingers are brushing the hole between her cheeks. “I want to feel you here.”

Probably my heart skips a beat. She is probably planning on killing me tonight. “Are you sure?” I ask as a precaution. She nods and I do not ask a second time. “Then take the lube in that drawer,” I add pointing at the nightstand next to the bed.

I watch her getting up, reaching the nightstand, and grabbing the lube. She holds it in her hands like the Olympic torch. The silly comparison makes me smile. The dumbest thing I can think about before having anal sex with a woman, to be honest. She gives me the lube. I open it and pour it abundantly on my fingers. I rub the palms of my hands to warm up the liquid.

“Lay on your stomach.”

She does exactly what she is told without batting an eye. Here comes the resolute, obstinate Mallory. I get down on my knees between her spread legs, her ass in plain sight. My fingers rub her heat without still getting in. Mallory is shaking in anticipation.

“Is this your first time, Mal?” I curiously ask her since we have never done this before.

“No but a very long time has passed since the last time. And, to be honest, last time it wasn’t even that good.” She turns around to face me and smirks mischievously. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Absolutely illegal sexual thoughts come to my mind. “Hand me one of the pillows,” I simply say without answering not to give in to her provocation. The woman spread below me does not know how many times I found myself in her same position, literally. Anyway, I do not even want to reply, facts will be my answer. I take the pillow from her hands, lift her up enough to put the pillow under her body so I can have a better angle to get inside her.

My fingers are exactly where they were minutes ago. This time, though, I slowly start pushing my middle finger inside. I feel her rim clinging to my finger while she whimpers and gets short of breath. As gentle as I can, I slowly push the whole finger back and forth at a regular space.

Mallory looks like she is going to say something but, when she opens her mouth, I push another finger inside without notice. A very high-pitched squeal rumbles in the room. Her body is shaking in an almost imperceptible way. While fingering her and focusing on her pleasure, I think about how I would like to get the same painfully sweet treatment. Lost in my thoughts, I spread her cheeks.

“More.”

I chuckle. “Are you asking for a third finger?”

“Well, if it’s strictly necessary before getting your dick-” but she does not have enough time to complete the sentence that I have already pushed another finger inside. Now, carefully, I fuck her in a circular motion. She moans shamelessly aloud.

“Oh, Mal… So bold just a few seconds ago, now moaning like that,” I say after spanking her ass with my free hand. “Look at you.”

I keep thrusting my fingers for a couple of minutes to prep her up; then I take my fingers off and her hole puffs. The body part that I like the most is exactly in front of me. I grab the lube again, pour the liquid on her cheeks and my dick, more abundantly than I usually do. I start stroking my dick and it almost hurts due to my painful erection. Mallory does not really pay attention to the process too lost in her pleasure.

Maybe I should say something before thrusting in her hole, but it is just another sex session, isn’t it? I hold my body weight up on my right arm while my left hand guides my dick to her warm entrance. When my tip is fully inside, she is moaning even louder. Mallory tries to push herself forward like she wants to escape from the intrusion, then finally relaxes. I patiently wait for her to adjust and when it seems the right moment, I thrust deeper until I finally bottom out.

That familiar feeling of tightness shows up once again. When my dick hits the back wall of her butt, I close my eyes not to lose control of my emotions. This friction is exactly what I have missed the most, a type of pleasure that I only experienced with men.

I do not know when I start thinking about him but the more I picture his face in my mind, the deeper I thrust. I can clearly see him in front of me on his four, his muscular ass bouncing towards me, always eager to have more even if it is painful. I used to be the bottom most of the time during sex, but every time he had asked me to top, I never really complained.

Mallory cries out. Abruptly, I go back to reality and stay still not to hurt her again after some unintentional rough deep thrusts. I am fucking a woman while thinking about a man – my man, precisely. Trying not to think about him again, I focus on what I am doing right now out of respect for this woman who is giving me her ass like a sacrificial gift. And right when I am about to keep going, she turns her hips to urge me to move and I willingly accept her offer.

On my knees, both of my hands on her hips, I start thrusting deeper back and forth, bottoming out and, with every movement, I can feel the sweat pouring out of my skin. Lube between her cheeks, drops of sweaty hair on her back, salty spit on our lips – a wet mess. I can feel the lube getting warmer and I close my eyes surrendering myself to this viciously sinful sensation. _Keep focusing on this tightness_ , I tell myself. Her inviting hole tickles my dick to please me the way I want to.

If Mallory did not challenge me to show off, I would thrust even faster to come as soon as possible for an immediate release – there is no point in procrastinating a pleasure like this, especially after all this damn time. I let one of my hands move to her clit and I touch her smoothly, instead.

I touch her in the same way that I would like to be touched; I fuck her the way that I would like to be fucked. We share the same dirty little secret: being fucked from behind, being a bottom. Mallory shivers laying under me; I would not let go of the same feeling for all the gold in the world. I wish I could be her.

“Come, Mal. Come for me,” I say out of breath between a thrust and another, “Come like every woman deserves.”

Her pleasure keeps growing more and more, so I let myself go completely, trying to reach an impossibly deeper spot inside her body. Mallory mumbles something unclear, confused, and after some seconds, I feel her legs shaking and her hole clings to my dick even tighter. She comes defeated and finally, I can come as well after three last steady thrusts.

After helping each other to clean our bodies with two towels, we lay on the bed under my grey sheets on our sides. We look at each other without saying a word. I put my arm around her waist while she sweetly caresses my chest with her fingers until she is asleep.

I try to fall asleep as well, but I simply lay with eyes wide open and both heart and brain in turmoil. My eyes meet her body and I hold her tighter bringing her closer to me. She does not wake up despite the new closeness: she keeps sleeping undisturbed and unaware of our bodies glued to each other.

I put my chin on her head and try to intertwine my soul with hers. Honestly, I am really trying to give us a chance, the last real chance to make things work. Time passes by but nothing changes. I am still myself, emotionally detached from her.

Broadly speaking, I am not a cheater as I told her before, but tonight I feel like I cheated on her. This time and other circumstances in which I thought about him wishing her to be him. There is only one thing I feel right now: shame for my thoughts. When I jerk off under the shower or in my bed almost every night while thinking about those doe eyes, I know I am cheating on her and she does not deserve this cruel attitude of mine.

However, and I am perfectly aware that this may sound crazy or bizarre, somehow, I want her. I know I do want her physically, otherwise, I could barely get a boner. Even if she drives me crazy sometimes, I do love her. Not the way I think someone should be truthfully loved, though. I would not want to hurt her in any way, although I keep hurting her somehow.

Suddenly, I just think that if our roles were reversed, I would not really care about who hurts who. If I found out that Mallory thinks about her ex when she touches herself at night, I would not even bat an eye. _What if she touches or fucks another guy?_ I ask myself and a fit of expected overcoming jealousy does not take over. If Mallory were into someone else, I would not be mad.

Of course, it would probably hurt my pride or ego – I am still a stupid, self-absorbed man – but the wound would only be superficial. The truth is that Mallory will never be an unforgettable kind of pain, an everlasting hole like the one he left inside this cage of flesh which is my body. I will always be the same Jimin with her, the one she met one year ago. And it sucks.

I ask myself why I cannot be the man that she deserves to be with. Mallory never denies me the simpler pleasures of existence: company, sex, conviviality. She motivates me when she notices my struggles; she teases me just in the right way when she wants to get laid; she is funny enough to make me smile and ease my not-so-inexplicable heart pain.

It is exactly when I feel like she has almost breached the walls of my heart that I deny her my true self. As a weapon of defense, I put her down somehow in my mind and turn her away with my gestures too afraid to give in to her good intentions that I always viciously describe as constraints. I know she feels rejected, unappreciated, or frustrated but I do not meet her halfway.

 _You are not a man, you are not him and it is not your fault by no means_ , this is what I would like to tell her when I can see her struggling due to my incoherent actions. I wish I could finally be honest with her and tell her about my past experiences which sometimes are as heavy as bowling balls on my stomach.

If I had the courage, I would tell her that I do not care if what I am looking for is a man or a woman, I want anything or anyone. And even when I say that I want anything or anyone, I still want him, just him all the fucking time. I would tell her that I am essentially homo but surprisingly hetero and that I like her even if she does not have a dick.

This is what it is: I like her and I love her in this sense, but it is the only type of love I can feel for Mallory. If I did not have an emotional uproar inside me, we could probably be the best of friends, worthy travel companions, faithful lovers.

All these thoughts remain untold. When I wake up, Mallory has already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has no specific songs.


	6. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love you," I simply say. These words slip from my lips without hesitation. The truest statement, the sweetest surrender. Rather than reply with a banal "I love you too," he turns his head and kisses the exact place where his ear was a few seconds before. He kisses my heart."
> 
> or
> 
> After an uncomfortable conversation at work, Jimin gets a surprise gift and dreams about someone special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very late update. I hope it's worth it.

Today, as every year, the publishing house I work for organizes the Recruiting Day to identify and select “new fresh talents.” I am not required to participate if none of the authors I deal with are not directly involved in the event, but I have not been that lucky this time, unfortunately. Mrs. Adams is also here to talk about her last _masterpiece_ – Demi’s idea to enhance Mrs. Adams’ popularity and her relationships with her readers – and so here I am as well.

I am currently in one big room just right to the cafeteria, now a sort of welcome room, where some of our HR operators sitting at their desks chat with several candidates. Others instead are sitting on the chairs at the end of the room waiting their turn. They hold in their arms their manuscripts or scattered pages of a potential novel – usually a few chapters – the hope of a successful interview and a bright future in their eyes.

Maybe this is the reason why I am not able to commit myself to anything in life, really. I wish I could consider myself a writer and do this job full time. But the truth is that I do not want to find myself in these people’s position, sitting at the end of a cold room, sweating like a pig, waiting for one of these strangers to call out my name and criticize my work and creative flair.

Sometimes I dream of myself being damn talented or at least enough to write a timeless opus and obtain the right to be part of the Olympus of the greatest writers ever existed. I picture myself next to Honoré de Balzac, Lev Tolstoj, Marguerite Duras, Virginia Woolf, Walt Whitman, and many more. We chat sipping our cups of tea and sitting at a big table as if we were the Knights of the ‘Literary’ Round Table. Not King Arthur but Dante Alighieri is our leader.

If I said this out loud, I would probably be accused of dissolute greed and overvalued self-esteem. It does not take long to figure out that there is not a shred of these authors’ talent in Park Jimin – my place does not belong where they brightly stand. And even if I had the chance to gather with them, I could never praise myself.

This is my true nature: I have dreams too often intentionally unattainable because this is the way I have learned to survive. But if I dream big and I am lucky enough to make that dream come true, I suddenly remember that I could easily fall into a big hole of failure as well. The higher is the jump, the longer is the crash on the ground. And it will break me apart. I fear this crash. I ask myself how many times it is possible to put the pieces together and start over once again, being aware that failure is always around the corner but still eager to try and not to give up.

I grew up in a social context where I had to keep my head down, nod, and accept all types of admonishments, make humble wishes because dreaming is only a right for a few. _Yeah, I know, once again I will have my chance next time_ , I used to think to myself. This is how I sadly dragged myself into the path of my stormy life without noticing how I slowly turned into a ghost. I started living in the shade of big, tall oaks too afraid to come forward and follow unexpected but joyful cobblestone streets that would have led me to the broad daylight.

Those times I tried to jump out of the shadows, ravenous and scrupulous eyes were already watching over me as to warn me: if you step ahead, you will not be safe. Therefore, I started craving for all those things that I did not have even though I already had a lot but having a lot was never enough. I wanted to have the sun that shone brightly on those cobblestone streets. To be honest, not having but being that sun was my ultimate desire.

In a hypothetical world dominated by wise scholars and talented writers, I am that sun shining high in the sky above those small silhouettes of hundreds of thousands of people moving on tiny busy streets. If I get closer, those silhouettes are anything but ants: they work together to reach a shared goal forgetting about their individual desires.

Now that I am the sun and no longer an ant, I wish I could share with my former companions the secret of life: not to live to be but to be to live. Living means doing what is good for your persona but most of the ants forget to train their minds and accommodate the stirrings of their souls. Therefore, most of them live in an apparently normal but spiritually maimed body.

Honestly, I do not know yet how to be that sun since facts can tell that I am still an ant. I like to think that, intellectually speaking, a person can turn into that sun based on his merit thanks to a sort of earthly justice that rewards who has something to say and knows how to say it. Communication in its purest form.

The greatest writers thoroughly weighted the words to use in order to revive dull hearts, report unfair wars, exhume old childhood memories. They wrote universal, ever-lasting works of art accessible to anyone of ordinary intelligence and curiosity. These masterpieces were made for those who have time, patience, and desire to try their hand at reading. These writers created unforgettable stories without imposing their views on their readers and earning the right to get at least some pages in school textbooks. Their thoughts are still sources of inspiration and knowledge.

On some old dusty and packed bookshelves, the works of rare and brilliant minds had been resting for centuries waiting to be discovered and show themselves as written evidence of their time on Earth. With this in mind, my deepest desire does not seem so incomprehensible – I challenge anyone not to wish for both a life and an afterlife of fame and glory. This is exactly what I silently and humbly want: unforgettable and imperishable fame and glory.

During the first break, I take the opportunity to go to the cafeteria and have a coffee. Some colleagues join me at the bar counter, and we chat about this and that. The topics of our conversation are mostly immigration, soccer, and bachelor parties. I do not know how or who has addressed the last topic but, honestly, I am not really paying attention.

I look at the window focusing on the pouring rain outside and then I notice Mrs. Adams sitting at a table on the far corner of the room waving at me and beckoning me with a tilt of her head. I reach her table and she asks me to sit down and join her.

“I can finally have a word with you, Mr. Park. Looks like you’re trying to avoid me,” she says starting our conversation in an unconventional, not-so-polite way.

 _You right_ , I would like to say. “I would never deprive myself of your good company, Mrs. Adams. And, please, call me Jimin.”

“Jimin, then,” she says without adding anything else.

I keep waiting for her to say something while trying to figure out why she asked me to join her, but she stays silent, her eyes fixed on me. I break the not embarrassing, yet not quite comfortable silence.

“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask trying to sound neutral and not bothered while pointing to the table.

“No particular reasons, Jimin. I just wanted some company.” She takes a sip of coffee while massaging her temples. She looks tired, frustrated. “I feel like I’m being exploited for my mind and talent at times like this.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Forgive me if I ask you, but I guess you just mentioned your frustration to open up about it, am I right? Why do you feel this way?”

Mrs. Adams grimaces before answering. “I’m sick and tired of being exploited for my notoriety. Honestly, I can’t really complain, but I don’t like to be asked to take part in such depressing events like this one. I don’t want to be used for low-level entertainment. I’m a woman who writes for women but I’m not like them.” She stares at something far away from us behind my back and then adds, “Before you say something, Jimin, I’d like to explain to you my vision of things, if I may.”

Her arrogance makes my blood boil. “Please, go ahead.”

“You know, Jimin, I’m well aware that I’m considered to be a writer for popular masses. Nowadays, it’s seen more as a fault than a virtue. The funny thing is that judgy people don’t seem to understand how much I profit from this type of writing. Big, clean, easy money. Most of my colleagues or people who work for or with me spend their days debating on my talent, the non-literary style of my works, my lively, not-so-pliant personality, to put it in a polite manner.” She briefly pauses folding her arms, a lifeless smile on her face. Her green, cold eyes are the gunsight of a sniper. “Surprisingly enough, it’s not for the talent but my exquisite instinct that I find myself here, today, talking about my persona as a writer and my books. Sensing the needs of the mass and then make off with the loot is sufficient.”

I really do not know how to react to her words. I am honestly confused by this quite peculiar conversation. “Speaking of her sense, what did you find out about the needs of the mass, exactly?” I ask unconvincingly neutral. My voice is clearly sarcastic.

Mrs. Adams seems to notice it too; her smile does not soften. “I’d feel incredibly offended by your words, Jimin, if we were equals, but this isn’t the case. I’ll always be grateful for your work and help on my books but you’re exactly what I’ve just said: a man behind the scenes who works on someone else’s book.”

To say that I am shocked is an understatement. I keep telling myself not to give in to her vicious provocation and put myself together. She gladly notices the grimace of disgust and the unbelief on my face.

She goes on. “To answer your question, I sensed women’s desire for escapism in the most human way: sex. This is also not an original talent, I admit, but something totally repetitive. But it always works. I’ve been able to understand what to say through words focusing on a target. And this made me an extremely rich woman.”

My resentment is going to explode like a volcano been inactive for centuries. “It’s really interesting to see how you start a conversation with the only purpose of denigrating other people for your self-validation. Do you usually do it to make up for an evident lack of self-esteem?”

Mrs. Adams tries to reply but I stop her. “Let me finish, please. I’ve just started.” I finish drinking my coffee. “It’s true, I’m a man who works on other people’s books and it’s the way I make a living. It’s not always fulfilling, I must admit, but I’ve no complaints if it allows me to have a loaf of bread on the table at the end of the day. Do you know which aspect of my job does not please me at all? Have to deal with people like you who take advantage of my critical sense to inundate me with their garbage when more valid writers are out there looking for their spotlight. You’re one of the many voices of the choir but pretend to be a soloist.”

My interlocutor snorts annoyingly. “What does it mean to be a valid writer anymore? You go after a démodé idealism, my dear Jimin. Try to keep up with our time. And for the record, if you were _a little bit_ more perceptive, you would have used your _superb_ critical sense in a completely different way. I guess you’re in your early 30s. Such a waste of time, and talent, apparently…” Disdainful, she gets up without letting me say a word. Before leaving me at the table, she adds, “Don’t take it personally. I’ve nothing against you, it’s just a way to give vent to my frustration. It’s easier to lash out at someone else rather than yourself. Have a wonderful day, Jimin.”

Although she said she needed to vent her frustration, this excuse is not convincing. I do not know why she had to be such a brat for no reason and what her real intentions behind her words are. It is disconcertingly unbelievable.

The thought of her never acting or speaking informally during our conversation is hitting me right now. As she pointed out to me _amicably_ , she is part of a higher social rank. Arguably, she truly believes that she is that sun, the sun I am secretly dying to be one day. I wish I asked her how living by feeding on illusions and hiding under the protective but precarious wings of the God of money feels like.

After my miserable break, I go back to work. I answer captivating or pointless questions of some candidates, mostly women, since I oversee editing romance novels, and gently decline some invitations or blind dates in unknown apartments. I do not care if those who ask to take me out are women or men: both genders still have not understood that this is not the right way to work their way up. Some candidates really try their best (or worst) to climb over their competitors to get to the top. Honestly, even if we have thousands of dates, I do not have any power to appoint them to prestigious working positions. As Mrs. Adams reminded me before, I am just Park Jimin.

When the working day is finally over and home is calling for me, I step by a near supermarket to grab dinner – a crappy tomato soup and some crostini – and then I fly to my apartment. After taking a shower, I put a t-shirt and sweatpants on and, before going to the kitchen, I give a quick look at my studio’s door, the only barrier separating me from my emotional disaster. The untouched, unsullied paper cemetery is still there.

I start cooking. While humming an old song taken from my mental mnemonic archive, after adding a glass of wine, I cook some slithers of tender beef in a pan and brown them with garlic and rosemary. When I am about to chop some mushrooms and carrots as a side dish, the doorbell rings. I can see through the video intercom that a medium-sized parcel is waiting for me.

After greeting the mail guy and stepping inside my apartment once again, I take the parcel to the kitchen. I unwrap it like it is a gift; under a dozen layers of thick paper packaging, a beautiful dark blue vase in blown glass with light orange streaks lies in front of my eyes. The vase looks familiar, too familiar. I try to remember where I had already seen it in the past and to figure out who sent me the vase since there is no card attached.

While thinking about it, I place the vase on the coffee table in the living room and I keep on cooking. After twenty minutes, I am having dinner – finally – while my eyes are fixed on the mysterious vase. I am pretty sure I have seen it somewhere in Korea when I used to live there. When dinner is over, a light bulb goes off in my head and I suddenly understand who the sender is – the only possible person who could gift me such a thing.

My mother has an exact copy of this vase at her place. This means that I have totally forgotten to call her for quite some time. The vase shows up at the right moment: a blatant reminder of my mother’s apprehension. Therefore, I call her without a second thought.

“Hello? Jimin?” My mother asks with a sleepy voice, definitely worried about me.

“Eomma!” I almost scream so happy to hear her voice.

My mother snorts on the phone. “Are you crazy? Does calling your mother at three in the morning seem right to you?”

Shit, the time zone. “Oh, fuck- I mean, I’m sorry, eomma, I-”

I hear my mother giggling on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry, adeul, you know you can call me at any time. I honestly prefer during the day, but late night is fine as well if I can hear from you.”

“Sorry, eomma. I’ve just received your gift and I wanted to thank you. I also wanted to tell you how sorry I am for disappearing for a while. Too busy…”

“I really hoped you’d apologize for ghosting me. I also called Taehyung a few times to check on you. I didn’t want to bug my son.”

“Tae? He didn’t say a thing.”

“I asked him not to, adeul. I just wanted to know that you were fine without being a nosey eomma.”

Taehyung and my mother, always partners in the same crime. “When I see him, I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” I mumble. “He could suggest me to call you at least since I was too caught up with a shitty- I mean, unpleasant working schedule. I forgot to live as well.”

My mother sighs. “Don’t be harsh on him because of your faults, Jimin. I don’t want to lecture you right now – I’m too tired, spare me this motherly duty – but don’t be mad at Tae. Tell me what’s wrong, instead, so I can help you somehow.”

 _I really wish you could help me, eomma._ “Don’t worry. I don’t need to-”

“Jimin, talk to me.” It is not an order, neither a request. It is simply that voice of hers that comes in when she wants something and knows she is going to have it.

Needless to say, I start opening myself up to her like a river in flood. “I hate my job right now. I’m always unsatisfied, unhappy. I’d like to work on countless projects that I truly like and write more. I have this dream of publishing something but I’m not brave enough or – even worse – talented enough. I don’t know why but I simply can’t. I thought I was stronger but I’m so, so fragile. I’m still that kid who is afraid of monsters under his bed.”

“You stopped being afraid of them when you were fourteen. Every night, you stepped on my bed and kept me awake all night until we both figured out a logical and exhaustive explanation about the non-existence of monsters. You were such an analytical child.” I hear her laughing heartily. “Please, keep going.”

“Well, I was saying that my job isn’t satisfying. And today as well, I really had a terrible day. I bumped into this stuck-up, sociopathic writer blinded by unmotivated hatred. She hurt me somehow and her words deeply saddened me.”

My mother stays quiet for a couple of seconds. “What did she say?”

“I truly feel like I’m a child right now. A mother who defends her pup – incredibly embarrassing,” I mumble. “Anything in particular,” I underplay. “She simply reminded me of everything I’m not. Well, who I’m not, I guess?”

“And this means? Explain yourself, please.” She sounds serious, on high alert.

“Come on, eomma. Don’t fool me. You know what I mean. I’ve been doing this job for six years and I’ve never been able to achieve a single damn thing I really wanted. It’s an honest job, but absolutely redundant. I must find a new job and start writing more often. Besides…”

“Besides?”

“Besides, that writer is right. I’m only a guy constantly working on someone else’s book. Who knows if I’ll ever be able to focus on my books...”

My mother seems to lose her patience. “My adeul – at least the one who left Korea years ago – would never say such a foolish thing. First, I’ll kindly explain to this writer – if you think she deserves to be considered one – and to your own self, since you lost your mind, that this job allows you to learn many tricks of the trade so that you can use them on purpose. Most of the modern writers don’t even know how to write.” She snorts.

“I already know this,” I say petulantly.

“Let me finish, you grumpy. How is it even possible that you don’t see it? Writing is not about putting some words together, one after another. And it goes without saying – ‘cause it’s painfully obvious – that words must have a sense at least, otherwise professionals like you wouldn’t even exist. Writing is more than this. Did you forget about how many lives you had lived in your childhood every time the ink from your pen ended on blank paper? Or about all the outstanding lives you had gifted your characters with? The hand of a writer like the hand of a God. Writing is the breath of the soul, Jimin.”

Silence on both ends of the line. My mother is right. I thought that I needed to exist to live until today. Now I know that existence has a different logic: I must live to make life because this process of making someone live makes me alive. It is through life that the world enlivens. As usual, I am always thankful for her words. “Gamsa, eomma.”

“What are you thanking me about, exactly? Off to bed, it’s late.”

“But it’s only 9:30!” I exclaim incredulously.

My mother chuckles. “Right, the time zone. This means I’m off to bed. Eat, sleep, and never lose your spirit, adeul. You’re always the strongest, the bravest even though you’re a scaredy-cat.”

I laugh. “Chal ja-yo, eomma. Sleep well.”

When I hang up, I wash the dishes and then jump on the couch. I turn the TV on and pick a random TV series on Netflix. One of the main characters is wearing a yellow raincoat and, light in hand, is looking for a hidden passage in a cave near a power plant. This passage apparently leads to different timelines…

“Jimin, we should get married.”

I laugh amused. “Getting married at 20? Are you aware of the current statistics about divorces? We won’t even survive the first year of marriage.”

He looks at me and grunts. “I’m not saying to get married right now, hyung. You know, broadly speaking…”

“Broadly speaking,” I say making fun of him. “Such a fancy guy.”

He rolls his eyes. “I really want to marry you someday and call into question these stupid statistics. Together.”

 _He sounds so serious. He looks so serious. Is he?_ “So, for real?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Isn’t it obvious? I already asked your eomma, by the way.” I try to interrupt him because of what? My eomma? But he keeps talking. “Do you need a ring to better understand?!”

I snort. “A ring? We don’t need any ring to know that we belong to each other. It’s just a waste of money, an empty promise just for show.”

“So, marry me without rings, hyung,” he proposes once again spreading a contagious hope all over the place.

“What I’m saying, baby deer,” I add kissing his nose, “is that it’ll happen one day and without rings.” I squeeze him in my arms. His hope has definitely infected me.

“Hyung, you’re literally crushing me.”

“I know. I want to squeeze you like this, so you never grow up.” We both laugh. “By the way, is this marriage proposal thing a way to make me cook more often, isn’t it? I always make dinner lately.”

“What?” He asks pretending to be outraged. “How dare you! And, honestly, who taught you to cook if not your lovely namdongsaeng?” He smirks and I fall even more deeply in love. “And I remind you that I always clean your mess ‘cause you’re disgustingly messy. So, to be fair, I have nothing to gain by marrying you. I’ve everything to lose!”

We keep laughing, both lighthearted. There is no war anywhere right now if this kind of love exists. “Aish, you brat… If I catch you…”

We start pushing each other and roll over the garden by the river Han. Some passers-by look at us, an indignant expression on their dumb, homophobic faces; others do not even acknowledge our existence. Do we care? No, we do not. We keep rolling over and the grass lawn gets stuck in our hair strands, even our nostrils, and stains our clothes. It is the first time that I do not think about the upcoming travel to New York City. Here, in this garden, we are still two lively, curious 20-year-old kids who had left Busan to study in Seoul. 

He is the first to speak, out of breath, after we stop rolling over the garden just a step away from the roadside. “Are you going to miss me?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” I ask out of breath as well.

“I want you to tell me, hyung. I need it,” he explains gasping. “I need to know that you’ll miss me because even right now I fucking miss you.”

I am dying to tell him that I would love just to stay here, waiting for him to end his studies so we can go together but I have already made up my mind. No more studies on my horizon, I am ready to face a new adventure. When I had mentioned to him my idea of moving to New York City, he did not stop me. He encouraged my decision and promised me to be on my side as soon as humanly possible.

“I miss you too. I’ll miss you, always.”

He holds me tight, chest to chest, for what seems to be a too short while in my judgment. This moment, I keep thinking, I need it to last forever. Then, he puts his head on my chest, his right ear on my heart. “My favorite sound.”

I believe this is exactly why I love him: he is the only one able to trigger this type of emotional turmoil inside me. A peaceful turmoil. Like a hurricane, he arrives at a destructive speed spreading chaos in my quiet living. As I caress his hair, I shut my eyes listening to the sound of a light summer breeze, smiling at the sky like a fool. Foolishly, shamelessly in love.

“I love you,” I simply say. These words slip from my lips without hesitation. The truest statement, the sweetest surrender. Rather than reply with a banal “I love you too,” he turns his head and kisses the exact place where his ear was a few seconds before. He kisses my heart.

When I feel a shadow covering my face from above, I open my eyes. Two big, identical hazel planets stare at me fervently. His relaxed eyebrows light up his whole face – a universe without imperfections. Of course, his dumb luck shows off itself in his body as well. He is what beauty looks like.

He smiles at me, that crooked, toothy smile; his soft dimples show up. Maybe it is not a smile, it is a grin. I do not care. Looking at him, this is the creature to whom I belong. We keep looking at each other, sharing and renewing untold promises, while being heedless of those thousands of miles that soon will separate us…

I wake up with a start on the couch. It was just a beautifully painful dream. In an effort to fall asleep once again and return to that dream as soon as possible, I wrap myself in a comfy plaid. I turn the TV off and close my eyes hoping to find myself below that beautiful young man who locks me in that place and time with his starry gaze. Please, I beg Morpheus, please remind me of the taste of our kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has no specific songs.


	7. The Mole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "While surrounded by the people that I love the most, I forget for a moment that life is a walker on a tightrope between two wobbly feelings: happiness and despair."
> 
> or
> 
> It's Thanksgiving. Jimin meets Demi at Canarsie Pier and what she tells him makes him glad to spend this day with his dearest friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demi is definitely one of my favorite characters in this story. I hope that she will have a special place in your hearts as well.

“What’s wrong with you? I would never be a seal,” one of the two kids in front of me yells at his little brother. “Look at that shark. So big, so strong!”

“Daddy, tell him that seals are cleverer,” says the youngest.

Their father is visibly unsure how to handle the dispute between his children. “Boys, please. Both of them are equally incredible animals…”

“Look at those teeth!” The oldest interrupts him. “The white shark is the king of the sea.”

The youngest snorts. “Seals have no ears and have long whiskers to see and hear. They’re special.”

The oldest laughs at him. “Seriously, dude? Are you comparing seals whiskers to sharks’ teeth?” He is so annoying, but the younger brother does not give up and starts talking about the magnificence of seals – especially about the females – and their unconditional love for the only pup they can give birth to. They eat during the entire pregnancy and then fast for several whole months after the birth of their pup. Only one pup at a time surrounded by love and protection.

They keep arguing for twenty minutes at least until their father tries to give them a break which seems to work as he asks, “Shall we go to the turtles' tank?” His two sons hurry to see the next section of the aquarium smiling and giggling. Turtles won this war.

Only a handful of people know that, when I need to think and stay by myself, I go to the aquarium. Honestly, I hate seeing animals trapped inside cages or tanks. However, aquariums make me feel calmer.

Sitting in front a giant tank with white sharks, rays, and other unknown marine species, I think about my parents: my mother, the seal that loves his pup unconditionally, and my father, the shark that has bitten the hearts of her mate and their pup.

After my birth, my father left me and my mother because he was already married to another woman. I still do not know if my mother was aware of his fiancé’s marital status or if she simply accepted the whole package because she loved him. Despite my curiosity, I never asked. I never needed to know the truth, I never cared about how things went between them.

During the years, I only focused on my mother and all the love and support she had given me. Although she had other relationships – some of them were long, established relationships – when I was younger, she decided to have only one child. She did not want to have children from different lovers and I still did not ask her why: I only accepted her will – I could not do much about it anyway.

Sometimes, I am glad to be her only child. From an egoistic point of view, I got all her attention, love, and comprehension to myself but, unfortunately, I learned her swinging emotional states all the hard way because she could only take her problems out on me. I do not blame her, really, but I would be lying if I said that my life with her was always easy.

Then other times, during my childhood, I often wished I had a sister or a brother, just out of curiosity. I wanted to know what it meant to share something on both material and spiritual levels. By growing up, I missed the fights in the household over a stupid toy or sweater, the nonsense discussions about a videogame or the embarrassing confessions about the first sexual experiences, and the consoling hugs after long, difficult days at school. If I had any siblings, I would probably have felt less the agonizing absence of my father.

My mother’s men were never an inconvenience. I avoided them, they avoided me. I did not want them to like me and they never tried to make me like them back. A fair silent agreement. My mother, for her part, always avoided taking them home – with rare exceptions – not to invade my privacy and I am thankful for that as well. In this way, she saved me from unpleasant encounters in the house, suspicious noises in the night when I was supposed to be asleep and meaningless chats just pretending to be a well-mannered kid.

My mother decided to be a mother and a father at the same time. Speaking of her, it is not easy to be suddenly in a role that you are genetically unable to play – or this is what people usually say. As for me, it was a matter of ‘skin,’ a primordial feeling that grew inside me and did not let me recognize my mother as my father. “She is a woman and so she is a mother,” I used to believe. It was hard to think of her as my father at times because I always thought that men had rougher, wrinkled skin. She was so soft – the skin of an angel.

Against all odds, she managed to be a father as well and when I finally become a teenager, I completely forgot about the ‘skin matter.’ What the hell. What if she is a woman? She can be anything she wants. Well, she often told me that it was quite simple for her being a father because she was gifted with strong arms and austere appearance – stereotyped characteristics usually attributed to men. She is a woman and a mother. She also claims to be my father, but I do not need one when I have been lucky enough to have her in my life.

Who my father is, it is not easy to say. I do not know much about him. I only know that he was married so I assume he also had other children. During his engagement with my mother, while being married, he used to work as an executive manager of a multinational telecommunication services company. When I was fourteen, I once heard my mother chatting with a friend about him and his fondness for gambling. Not long after that, I found out that he had lost millions of won, his wife, and their mansion.

I still can recall long nights of anxiety and distress while asking myself, “Do I look like him?” or “Am I going to fail as he did?” Answers do not matter anymore: I am not going to be like that blurred figure that sometimes haunts my sleep, even my thoughts. Even if all my strengths and weaknesses are like his, he is still not my father and I am still not like him. At all.

As I walk around the aquarium, I look at some schoolchildren. Two of them stand close to each other. A girl in a red knit cap chats with a taller boy pointing her finger at some tropical fish while whispering something in the boy’s ear. This makes me think that I rarely meet someone who actually knows something about fish. Many people come here just to read brief information about sea creatures on the small panels next to the fish tanks. This thought saddens me, but I cannot really expect to meet expert marine biologists every time I come here. The point is that I always wish to learn something new but fewer and fewer people are able or eager to teach me.

When I leave the place, I imagine my mother taking my hand. “I miss you, eomma,” I whisper to the icy wind. Perhaps, right now, she is smiling at her home in Korea.

I do not have much to do today even if it is Thanksgiving. I am patiently waiting for tonight to have dinner at Taehyung and Yoongi’s loft. Most of the shops are closed, just 'a few' restaurants and pubs are open, which means a few hundred – if not even more – since it is always New York City that I am talking about. As I wander around with no destination, my phone rings.

“Hey, honey.”

“Hey, beauty.”

I hear Demi giggling on the other end of the line. “Do I bother you?”

“You never bother me.”

“Where are you now?” The help request of who seems to be a broken-hearted girl.

“Near the aquarium.”

“The aquarium, really?” She says surprised but does not ask anything else. “Meet me at Canarsie Pier, if you feel like it. I’m around here.”

By the way her voice breaks, I understand that she really needs me by her side right now. “Sure. I’ll be there asap.”

“Thank you, darling.”

I must admit that going to Canarsie Pier from here sounds like a slog but when Demi calls, Jimin is ready to go no matter what. I get mentally ready to take two or three buses. After a little over an hour, I reach my destination and as I walk down the pier, I notice a black figure leaning out the wooden fence of the dock. A long oversized black coat and several layers of warm wool protect Demi from the cold.

When I get closer, she is still feeding and looking at some ducks that are silently swimming in the pond. But when she suddenly turns around, probably after noticing me, her eyes are filled with a deep cutting sadness.

“Demi?” I ask her to understand what is going on.

“Let’s have a walk, handsome.” She takes my hand and we start walking together. Her silence swallows the whole pier. And I am trapped in it as well. I feel heartbroken as well because Demi never let herself look this way.

Some seagulls fly above us. As she points at one of them, she says, “Have I ever told you that a seagull shit on my head when I was five or six? From that moment on, I understood that Planet Earth is not a safe place.”

I chuckle even if it sounds a little bit forced. “Luckily enough, I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. That moment marked my life permanently. After some shit in my head, I become a new woman.”

“Is it because of some shit on your head that you have an empty look in your eyes?” I ask gently.

Demi sighs. “I wish it were the problem. It’s some other shit, you know.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Are we not already talking about it?” She pauses as we sit on a bench. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Sorry.” She sighs, I nod. “I wanted to see a dear friend because I’m losing another dear friend of mine.”

“Demi…”

“I know, you’re probably going to say that you’re sorry and I believe you. I know that you’re sorry but I’m also sorry. Do you get what I’m saying? I feel like nobody can really understand what I’m feeling right now.”

“Has someone tried to understand, or have you let someone try?”

“I haven’t mentioned it to anybody yet. You know that I always prefer going through things alone.”

I hold her closer to me. I can smell her sweet fragrance of jasmine. “Demi, some things need to be faced with the help of our dearest ones. And this imminent loss is one of these things. Please, trust the ones you love.”

“I’m going to skip that part when I say that it’s not fair… But you know… It’s not fair,” her voice cracks. “I grew up with her in a small town near Vancouver. She’s always been a sort of soulmate since childhood. Pure friendship at first sight. I was supposed to be her maid of honor.”

“Can I ask you what happened?”

She nods before replying. “It happened that she never really paid attention to what his physician had told her. She was supposed to do moles screening once a year for previous health issues. And you know that moles can be bad, right?” I nod. “Like, really bad? Like one of the worst movies with Charlie Sheen?”

I still do not know how she can be hilarious in situations like this one. “Aren’t all Charlie Sheen’s movies bad?”

“Yeah…” She smiles a bit. “So, she was unaware of some cancerous moles on her body and now these moles are taking her away from me. Those fucking small spots on our stupid skin… Unbelievable!”

“I know I sound robotic and repetitive like a cliché but I’m truly sorry, Demi. So, so sorry for you, the sweetest yet strongest girl I know. And the loudest, of course.”

She laughs a bit, but I can say that she is already crying even without looking at her. I cannot see her face, but I hear her soul raging. We stay silent even if I am supposed to say something since people in pain usually need to be comforted. But I know that Demi is like me: she does not want any consoling gestures or words. So, I take her by her hand and we head to a kiosk near us. I buy two hot chocolates for us hoping that her heart will be able to bear the cold of her next dark days.

“Thank you, darling. You’re always so kind to me.” She smiles and the world seems to be aware of it as some grey clouds let the sunlight filter through them.

“You mean I’m the sweetest and kindest,” I say winking at her.

Demi rolls her eyes as she says, “I’m not a liar.” A tear is about to run down her face, but she wipes it right on time.

“You can let yourself cry, Demi. Don’t hold back out for pride.”

“Pride?” Demi snorts. “It’s just that, right now, it’s not time to cry. I don’t want to cry since the next months are probably going to be only tears, grief, and pain.”

We keep walking on the dock while drinking our hot chocolates. After a while, we decide to head to Manhattan. During our way there, Demi leans her head on my shoulder and says, “I want to read my wedding speech as her maid of honor at her funeral. Is it a stupid idea, isn’t it?

I think about it before replying, “Do you do it for her or for yourself?”

Demi does not waste a second to answer. “Funerals are for the living, not for the dead. It’s a way to remember her as a beautiful woman who never had the chance to get married and will always be the greatest badass person I’ve ever met.”

If I were Demi, I would never read a eulogy at a funeral – or, even worse, at a wedding reception – but we do what we must to survive. My words would be a silent, painful stream of unspoken thoughts about the one that I lost. Loss always burns like a wildfire.

Even though I have a different point of view, I do not share it with her. I simply say, “Got it. Read it if it makes you feel good.” A healthy lie for a good friend.

When we get off the subway, we are going to Taehyung and Yoongi’s loft, but Demi seems to be uncomfortable. “Don’t you feel like coming, am I right?”

Demi nods. “Yeah… Please, apologize to Tae and the other guys as well. Tell them that I’ll see them all really soon. I just need to go home right now.”

She kisses my cheek and heads in the opposite direction. I see her disappearing in the foggy street and I feel guilty for not being able to conquer death. Demi, I wish I could let your friend live her dream to get married looking breathtaking in her wedding dress as she walks down the aisle – and let you live the worst nightmare: wearing a terrible peach bridesmaid dress. Nightmares and dreams are both hard to make come true at times.

After fifteen minutes, I ring the intercom of my friends’ place. When Taehyung answers, he is already yelling something, loud music, and voices in the background. I step inside and, as I get outside the elevator, Taehyung is already waiting for me leaning against the open main door.

“Finally! I thought you were no longer coming,” he says as he hugs me.

“I’m not even late, Tae!”

“How can you say that you’re not late if you’re the last one to show up?”

“Seriously?” I check the time. Five to seven. “Hyung, I’m five minutes early!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes and snorts. “Everybody is already here. You’re late.”

“Maybe you should tell them that they’re _excessively_ on time. And, now that I think about it, there’s always someone who is going to be the last one to arrive!”

Taehyung does not reply and drags me inside his loft. After taking off my clothes and shoes, I go to the living room, a big ‘lounge area’ – as Taehyung usually describes it – with huge glass windows and a heavenly view of the city. Rich guy stuff.

Yoongi, who is clearly tipsy, is rapping and jumping on the couch with Hoseok. Yugyeom, one of his coworkers, is making a video with his phone. “Too funny and weird,” I think he has just said. Jin and Minseo are all by themselves arguing about something. Jin seems tipsy as well because he has a thousand-yard stare and is red around the ears – it usually happens when is not tipsy but drunk, to be honest. Subin, Namjoon, and Jaebeom are in the kitchen making dinner.

“What were you doing exactly, Tae?” I ask since everybody – or almost everybody – seems to be busy with something.

“I’ve just finished setting the table.” I look at him questioningly. He is lying.

Minseo, who has overheard our conversation, stops arguing with Jin and says, “Try again, Tae-ssi, because I was the one to set it.”

Taehyung snorts and I laugh. “I sliced some vegetables before.”

Jaebeom, another Hoseok’s coworker, comes out of the kitchen raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” He does not add anything else and goes back to where he was.

“Okay, fine!” A bugged Taehyung exclaims. “I act as the master of the house. Is it too bad to entertain my guests? I’m that classy touch that makes this place even more beautiful.”

I do not even try to understand his nonsense, but I always appreciate his endless self-confidence. Subin comes out of the kitchen and asks me, “Have you heard from Demi?”

Demi, right. “She’s not coming. She apologizes but she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Ugh, it’s not the same thing without her,” Tehyung says. “I’m going to die of boredom,” he adds in a melodramatic way covering his eyes with an arm like a movie diva from the ‘60s.

“What about Mallory?” Subin asks.

“Are you seriously asking this, Subin-ssi?” Jin replies sardonically as he comes closer to Minseo. “He probably doesn’t even know where she is right now.”

“Aish, you brat,” Minseo says sounding a little too bit irritated. She seems on the warpath tonight, but I do not want to ask them why. If Jin wants to, he will tell me what happened between them.

“Mallory was already busy,” I simply explain.

“What a shame!” Jin exclaims. Then, Minseo and I roll our eyes and look at each other as we laugh.

In the meantime, the chaotic mess in the ‘lounge area’ does not seem to end. Taehyung is now jumping on the couch as well while Yoongi is still rapping a song that I have never listened to. Maybe it is one of his unreleased tracks from his upcoming album.

I silently approach Yugyeom and we move our heads to the rhythm of the music as we look at the scene in front of us. The way Yoongi, Hoseok, and Taehyung are having fun on the couch seems to scream “30 years old and not feeling it.”

When dinner is ready, we sit at the table altogether. We chat about our daily routines, future projects, or simply old stupid anecdotes. While surrounded by the people that I love the most, I forget for a moment that life is a walker on a tightrope between two wobbly feelings: happiness and despair.

When dinner is over, sated and filled-out, we move to the living room. Taehyung starts playing the piano while Minseo is singing with her amazing voice an edited version of the song _Misty_ by Johnny Matis.

“ _It might be the sound of your hello that music I hear; I get misty the moment you're near_.”

With a glance from right to left, I see Namjoon clinging to Subin the way a Koala holds its precious eucalyptus tree. His chest is pressed against her back, one of his hands on her baby bump. They gently swing their bodies as they listen to our friends. Hoseok sits on the couch and holds Jaebeom and Yugyeom’s hands, their heads on both of his shoulders. Jin, Yoongi, and I sip our glasses of wine while standing against the wall and looking at the convivial scenes of affection. Or Yoongi and I at least, since Jin seems to be lost in his thoughts. I would like to ask him if everything is fine, but I let it go.

While my friends are thinking, singing, and holding each other in this precious out-of-time bubble of joy, I recall the events of the day. I think about Demi and her lifetime dying soulmate; I think about my protecting mother, the lovely seal that takes care of her pup; I think about my father and his empty, meaningless existence; I think about my friends and how much I owe them to always help me no matter what. And, of course, I think about the only person I should not think about, that person who has been in town for a while now but never happens to be with our mutual friends. Is it a coincidence?

“ _Never knowing my right foot from my left, my hat from my glove, I'm too misty and too much in love._ ”

If I just stop for a moment and collect my thoughts, I can see how all these people are moles somehow. Some of them are cancerous, like my father, and others are benign, like the rest of them. All of them are on my skin. The cancerous one itches and hurts sometimes, especially when I have plenty of time to think. The benign moles are just silent companions on the way. They stay with me; they make me feel less lonely. And I am aware that I can always count on them.

And there is this mole, the only one I am not able to describe. This mole is an overwhelming feeling, a delicious taste, a smell full of memories. This mole haunts my nights and lights up my days when I am in a good mood for love. It lies there next to my heart and I feel like it is buried inside my chest at times. I feel it every time I wake up, every time I fall asleep. He is that walker on a tightrope: he gives me happiness, he gives me despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Misty by Jonny Mathis


	8. The Free Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On the verge of breaking up, ahead of our upcoming abandon, I left him while still craving for his love and attention; he started loving me less as he was being dumped. From this perspective, who is the one to blame? I thought I was stronger, yet I fell harder."
> 
> or
> 
> After a long workday full of unforeseen events, Namjoon and Jimin have a deep conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the best chapter so far. It's intense in some parts and it gives a lot to think about, but I guess it really helped me going through some shit. I do identify myself with this Jimin even if he seems heartless at times (not true at all). His “lovely” confusion makes me feel less complicated.

November goes away silently undisturbed. On the tips of its toes, it gives way to December with its lights, Christmas greatest hits, and woolen beanies. I am wearing one right now as I walk to Prince St. and turn around the corner at Crosby St. to meet Demi at Housing Works Bookstore Cafe & Bar. She knows that it is one of my favorite places because it always makes me feel at home – my dream home where I am happily comfortable in my skin without an emotionless mask on my face.

There are still some meters left to reach out to her and I notice Demi in the street, already waiting for me and waving a hand in my direction. As I get closer, I can see her casual attire: light mom-fit jeans, a green turtleneck, a camel cashmere-blend coat – at least a bigger size – and a long scarf that seems to almost choking her. By the way she looks, I can easily tell that today is her day off for sure.

“Where’s your tailleur?” I ask raising an eyebrow.

“It left me, and I was saved by a thrift shop near home,” she answers amused. Her usual sunny disposition hides her newfound misery. She hugs me to greet me and we step into the bar.

Although it is Friday morning, there are not a lot of people. Usually, in this period most New Yorkers go out shopping to buy Christmas gifts in advance or to spend money just for fun – if they do not work, of course.

We order two large cappuccinos and some apple and cinnamon cookies; then we move to a table at one of the corners. The smell of coffee pervades the room, the walls with shelves full of books crush us in a tight hug and protect us from the coldest day of the year so far.

“So, tell me, Demi,” I say to start our conversation, “You brought me here on a Friday morning to talk about a new author on the scene… You know well that I am supposed to be at my desk overseeing the sale of strennas, don’t you?”

“Yes and… No,” Demi answers. “It is an interesting author. Young, charming, and Korean, just like you, my darling. I thought you might be interested. It’s been a while since you’ve published books by Asian authors. By the way, his book is a blast: it’s a sci-fi thriller set in the Caribbean.”

 _Young, charming, and Korean and he’s back in town_ , I keep repeating to myself lost in my thoughts. Isn’t it a strange twist of fate? Since when does he write books? I tried to keep the tone of my voice neutral and unbothered. “In the Caribbean?” I simply asked a little bit puzzled.

Demi simply nods and smiles. Then I add, “A definitely original plot. Honestly, I never thought I’d combine the terms _sci-fi_ and _the Caribbean_ together in the same sentence.”

Demi laughs. “Don’t be a jerk. Give this guy a chance. You know that I’d never make you waste your precious time. I just want to give you his contact and-”

“What’s his name?” I cut right to the chase, still not being able to ease my pain.

“Well, darling… Not to be offensive… But honestly, who remembers? His business card is in Korean and when I met him, I couldn’t get his English pronunciation,” she shakes her head bringing back the memory and we giggle together. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you today and give you his card.” She pauses as she digs in her bag. “While I’m at it, I want to tell you something…”

“Do you have another young and charming Korean who writes about aliens attack in Antarctica for me?” I ask ironically.

“No, handsome,” she rolls her eyes, “I know that you’ve been working on your manuscript for a while now and I’d be glad to read it when it’s done. I have connections with a publishing house – a rival of yours to be honest – that is looking for a new talented writer. They have one free spot on their schedule for the next year. I immediately thought of you.”

I do not know if I should feel blessed or honored for her suggestion or if I should smash my head against the table since the manuscript is definitely dead. “Um… There is no manuscript, actually. I set it aside and I will no longer work on it. It’s not worth it.”

Demi seems surprised and a little bit curious as well to hear that but, probably by the peremptory tone of my voice, she understands that it is better not to ask further questions. “Alright. However, if you’re going to write something else and you’re interested in being published, lemme know. Your rivals would be glad to have you among their authors,” she ends the last sentence with a wink.

I snort. “I don’t think I can especially with my editorial rivals in the way.”

“The publishing house you work for isn’t the master of your destiny. And I’m also well aware that you’re frustrated about your job position, so please think about it and eventually take the chance.”

“I promise I’ll do it. Thank you for your help, Demi. I’m grateful.”

“You’re welcome, handsome. Here’s the author’s business card.”

I take the card and I read the last name: Jeon. I suddenly stop without sparing a glance at the name. It cannot be him. He has never been a writer: he simply did his homework at school or wrote some academic papers at university because he had to. If it is really him, I could never show up all of a sudden and offer him a contract. Moreover, I will also be obliged to read and correct his drafts before publishing, and I do not want to complicate our already messy relationship.

Before going completely out of my mind, I try not to make my thoughts wash over me and I read his name: Junyong. The author is Jeon Junyong. I have just freaked out over nothing. My sigh of relief is interrupted by Demi, who seems – rightfully – taken aback by my reaction.

“Jimin, are you okay?” She sounds worried. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, or worse, a ghost from the past.” Demi is always on point. She reminds me of Mrs. Batsy somehow.

“Honestly? I don’t know who he is and, I swear, I’ve never been happier not to know someone!” As I reply almost yelling, Demi laughs probably thinking that I am a freak. We get up, put on our coats, and step outside the bar. When my feet touch the cold ground of the tarmac, my phone rings.

“Mr. Mazowska.”

“Jimin, could you please grace us with your presence?” My boss asks me rhetorically in a scornful tone. “Christmas holidays have not yet begun.”

“I apologize. I’ve just had a meeting for a potential writer and-” I try to explain unsuccessfully.

“The days when penniless authors came crawling back to us are over, I guess. We didn’t have to run after them. What a bitter sorrow.” My boss is in a bad mood today – as always. “I want you here in my office in 30 minutes, tops, not a second more. Strennas are making us crazy because all of your employees are damn incompetent, especially your assistant. Of course, we’re the one who found the only American idiot in the publishing sector. And I…”

I move my phone aside to free my ear and let Mr. Mazowska take it out on the icy wind of Manhattan. In the meantime, Demi looks at me and makes funny faces while doing bizarre pirouettes. After two minutes, I put the phone up to my ear again.

“I can’t accept it anymore. Merry Christmas my ass! Why does everybody say it if December has just started?”

He is talking nonsense. “Should I bring you a cappuccino?” I ask him to offer a truce.

Silence. I know that he does not want to give in, but I know his flaws damn well. “Yes, with-”

“With brown sugar and cinnamon,” I interrupt him.

“Exactly, also with-”

“With soy milk as well. Heaven forbid you had an allergic reaction to lactose,” I answer hoping that he will not pay attention to my sarcasm.

Mr. Mazowska simply snorts and says, “What a funny guy you are, Jimin. By the way, my cappuccino is on you.” Then he hangs up. It could be worse than this, I keep saying to myself.

“Wow! Your boss is… Intense,” Demi exclaims after hearing all our conversation. “Just go, fighter! Get back in the ring and knock him out!”

“I’m the one being knocked out, Demi,” I reply kissing her forehead.

Instead of taking a cab, I decide to walk back to my office, probably hoping to get devastating flu and have days off throughout December so as not to see my boss. I stop at Starbucks and grab a cappuccino for him as I promised. In the meantime, I select my beloved playlist on my phone and listen to a great song by Dionne Warwick.

“ _I walk along the city streets you used to walk along with me and every step I take recalls how much in love we used to be_.”

As soon as the song starts playing, something unusual happens. It is like the grey clouds above New York decided to slightly move to let some rays of sunshine filter through them. These rays now light up the street I am walking along.

I feel like an ordinary mortal being suddenly pushed on a catwalk and caged by the flash of some cameras. I can only continue on, and let the light get me where I need to go. Every step that I take makes me feel lonelier. Despite the light, on this catwalk, I am the only one left.

“ _Well, how can I forget you? When there is always something there to remind me_.”

As I walk, my gaze rests on a window shop where I notice a black hoodie with the image of Nirvana’s _Nevermind_ album cover on it. It looks exactly like the one I gave him as a gift for his 20th birthday. A bit upset, I turn around and try to look at the path in front of me not to tempt fate, but it seems that the God of Fate is mad at me today for some reason.

Suddenly my attention is drawn to my left where there is a billboard for an ice-skating show at Central Park. Back then, ice skating was one of our favorite things to do during Christmas time. I sigh exasperatedly as I walk a little faster staring at the sidewalk. I try to avoid slamming against some passers-by or, even worse, some light poles.

“ _I was born to love you and I will never be free. You'll always be a part of me_.”

When I am back in my office, I am emotionally exhausted. I invoke all the guardian angels at my disposal and pray them to protect me from the God of Fate and his wrath. And from Mr. Mazowska’s as well.

Seokjin is silently translating poems at his desk while sipping a cup of tea and Spencer nearly runs over me, red-faced like a tomato. By the yells coming from the end of the hall, I can see what happened and I – almost – feel sorry for him. When I realize that I am the one who is going to meet with the devil himself, I feel sorry for myself instead. I trust in the cappuccino I am holding right now and in my guardian angels as I walk towards the office of my boss.

My workday is essentially spent answering phone calls and emails and overseeing other tasks. I do not sweat easily not even when I am at the gym. Today, I have been sweating like crazy. Only Mr. Mazowska and his hysteria can overturn the inner balance of the Earth, the Cosmos, and Park Jimin.

As usual, Spencer is more useless than helpful and I do not fire him because I should focus on even more tasks during the day – all by myself, in addition. Not that I mind: I could probably do it all better than him, but I would not have an assistant good for carrying out the most boring tasks in the office. Therefore, I need him.

Seokjin seems not to notice at all the chaos around him. When the workday is over, as everybody sighs in relief and catapults themselves to the elevators to get home soon and possibly cry, he is still translating surrounded by a mystic almost impenetrable aura. When I greet him goodbye, he does not even reply. When I look at him a little bit closer, I notice his AirPods. If I will ever have the chance to be reincarnated, I want to be Kim Seokjin in my next life.

I finally leave the office and cling to my coat freezing. Some days ago, while I was having dinner at my apartment with my beloved draughts in the kitchen, the hot weatherman guy on TV announced to New Yorkers that this December was going to be the coldest month in the last 40 years. Lucky us. I also forgot my gloves at home and my hands are about to detach from my arms.

I try to stop a taxi, but after failing more than three times, I walk resigned towards the nearest subway station. But first I stop at a grocery shop because I forgot to buy groceries once again and my fridge is empty. I get in the shop, take a basket, and walk to the frozen food section – unmissable friends for three years now. I grab a frozen fillet of plaice with crabs, a side dish of Brussels sprouts, and, as I turn around, my basket clashes against another one.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say as I grab some cans dropped on the floor in the crash and put them back in the other basket.

“Jimin!” I look up and Subin smiles at me. “Don’t worry, you clumsy.”

I smile back, glad that it is her and not a complete stranger but worried at the same time: I did not mean to accidentally hit a very pregnant woman in the slightest. “Joesonghabnida, Subin-noona. I didn’t see you at all. I hope I didn’t hurt you.” I stare at her big baby bump. “Are you okay? I mean all of you?”

“Jimin-ssi, I’m more than okay. Please, don’t worry. You simply hit my basket, that’s it.” She seems fine indeed but I do not stop being worried. Namjoon will probably kill me – he will not – but still. She notices the food inside my basket and asks, “Frozen food, uh? When was the last time you ate something edible?”

“Since I have a polyamorous relationship with oven and microwave.”

Subin laughs at my lame joke. I honestly appreciate it since I feel a little bit embarrassed. “Do you think you’re able to leave this garbage just for tonight and have a proper dinner? Joon and I would be happy to have you with us.”

I look at her hesitantly. I do not want to bother them but I am literally dying to eat something which has a decent taste at least. And, knowing Namjoon and Subin, they would never invite me over just out of formality. “Subin-noona, I don’t know if it’s-”

“I wasn’t really asking, you know. Put those things back where they were and follow me. I’m almost done.”

I do what she said. I put the food back on the shelves and fridges and lie my basket down next to the entry. When I approach her again, she is taking the last things from a shelve avoiding some food placed below since she cannot bend down easily due to her baby bump in the way.

“Do you need anything?” I ask noticing how she is struggling.

“Um… Can you take two packs of eggs and one pack of flour, please? They’re down there, on the right,” she answers hesitantly almost ashamed to ask me a favor or simply bothered not to be able to do it herself. “As you can casually guess, my daughters limit my motor skills.”

I smile mellowed at her statement. “So, the twins are actually two twin girls?” I ask as I get the food from the shelves and put it in her basket that I gently take in her place. She gives me a quizzical look as if to say, “Didn’t you know it?” and then I add, “Namjoon-ssi forgot to tell me.”

Subin rolls her eyes and sighs. “That man even forgets about his own birthday!” We both laugh and I nod in reply because there is no way I can blame her.

“Are you ready for pink baby outfits?” I ask heartedly as we wait in the checkout line.

“Honestly? No!” She sounds incredulous as she smiles. “Joon and I were almost certain to have two boys. I don’t know why but we had this feeling. Then we found out that we were wrong about two weeks ago.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all! I’m just sorry for my I-forget-and-destroy-everything boyfriend because he will be forced to live with three women under the same roof for life.” We laugh again and she adds, “That’s how it is, generally speaking. When you expect something, then the exact opposite happens. I truly believe that it’s important to embrace the unexpected without sinking in disappointment.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s very _zen-philosophesque_. Is it a quote by some author?”

She looks at me very seriously. “Kim Namjoon.”

We spend the rest of the time in line laughing at her joke and the truth behind it. We barely refrain from laughing as we are at the cash register. Subin tries to pay and I make her give in so I can pay for her. It is the least I can do to thank her after her last-minute dinner invitation. I grab the bags and together we head towards the exit. Thankfully, this time I can stop a cab and, after 20 minutes, we reach our destination.

Namjoon’s apartment is literally a buildup of books and scattered pages on any available surface combined with an extraordinary amount of cables, computers, and unfamiliar electronic devices. When you get in, you immediately recognize it as the love nest of Kim Namjoon, an associate professor of Ethics at New York University, and Choi Subin, an IT specialist for a big multinational.

The apartment oozes cohesion from all corners: every time my gaze rests on something belonging to Namjoon, such as his countless prescription glasses, then something belonging to Subin jumps out, those scented candles on the coffee table and on the shelves for example. Their belongings coexist without ever overpowering each other. It is exactly what happens between Namjoon and Subin.

I met them shortly after I moved here years ago. I had previously met Seokjin at work and, consequently, Minseo as well. She gladly invited me over for dinner at her house and there I bumped into my future group of best friends.

Even though all my Korean friends were there that night, I can recall how my attention mainly focused on a couple standing by the dinner table while hugging each other. They could not keep their eyes and hands off each other, their hug was so tight as if they never wanted to let go of that moment. I was intrigued by their smiles full of secrets and promises and, looking at them, I promised myself to do the same in the future. I have miserably failed.

Six years have passed since that first encounter and, despite this, every time I spend time with Namjoon and Subin, I notice how easily they care for each other. They are still those two young adults in love: him, tall and slender, towers over her in a fierce and protective way, and her, smaller and so thin that she seems she might be broken with a kiss. But we all know that the bravery of a warrior and the strength of a lion are hidden inside that thin body.

Maybe they get along so well because their physiognomy is so different that it is in absolute harmony with their personalities creating a safe ecosystem that survives thanks to their empathy and ability to listen and have thoughtful conversations. If I did not meet them in person, I never would have believed that it was possible to meet two people like them. I would be lying if I denied that I am instinctively jealous of their bond but at the same time I am rationally truly happy for them.

“Forgive our mess, Jimin-ssi. My home is disgusting right now,” Subin says giggling as she cuts some potatoes. “I didn’t think I’d have any guest for dinner.”

“I’m the one being sorry. I didn’t mean to be an intruder,” I reply rubbing the back of my neck.

“But I invited-kidnapped you!” Subin exclaims smiling. “Instead of apologizing, hand me the salt please.” I give it to her and Subin bakes the sliced potatoes and then starts cooking shrimps. “Do you like them?” She asks pointing at them.

“I love them!” I simply say smiling. I look around and then I ask out of curiosity, “How is your home organization going before the tw-”

“Before the two packages are delivered?” She asks amused.

I chuckle. “Yeah. Are you ready for them?”

Subin sighs. “We still have a long way to go. Our apartment is luckily big enough. Twins will have their own bedrooms when they’re older. Joon is putting together the cribs or, better to say, he’s trying to. We both know that, if I weren’t the one being pregnant, I’d be in charge.” She bends her left arm with a smirk on her face, puts a small kitchen towel on her right shoulder, and adds, “I’m the strongest in the house!”

I laugh. “No doubt.”

“Do you want some wine, Jimin-ssi?” She does not wait for an answer and says, “Take a bottle of red wine from that cabinet. We should have a Valpolicella Ripasso. Thanks to Joon, of course… I don’t know a damn thing about wine!” As I grab the bottle and uncork it, Subin gives me three glasses. “Joon is coming; he’s usually already back at this time. And a drop of wine never killed anybody,” she adds winking at me.

“If you say so… As long as Namjoon-hyung doesn’t punch me right in the face,” I reply a little bit unconvinced.

“Speaking of the devil…” She replies after hearing a key turning in the main entrance door.

A very handsome and tired Namjoon steps inside, takes off his shoes and coat, and heads to the kitchen. As soon as he sees me, he is delightfully surprised and exclaims, “What an honor!”

“All the credit goes to Subin, who saved me from indigestion from frozen food.” We hug each other.

“Hey, you! Come and give your very pregnant girlfriend a kiss,” Subin orders him playfully while lifting a ladle upwards. “It’s not a demand but a threat.”

Namjoon laughs and kisses her. “Tyrant.” He gives her another chaste kiss on the lips. Then Namjoon looks at the three glasses of wine on the counter and adds as he raises an eyebrow, “Tyrant and drunkard?”

“A tyrant drunk in love,” Subin answers giving a glass of wine each. She sips her wine and then takes care of dinner once again. Namjoon and I move to the living room, his hand rests on my shoulder.

“As you can clearly see, Jimin-ah, this house isn’t a democracy or a meritocracy, but a real tyranny,” Namjoon says intentionally out loud so that he can be heard by Subin, who is giggling in return in the kitchen. “So, how are you? I’m glad to have you here by the way. Please pretend not to see our home _inferno_.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind the mess at all. I’m fine, just a little bit stressed, but it’s how it’s worked so far. Subin-noona told me that you’re putting together the twins’ cribs. Congratulations, man! Definitely blessed among women!”

Namjoon looks at me getting evidently emotional. “I’m so happy and scared! Honestly, those cribs scare the hell out of me. They’re not cribs but infernal machines.”

“I must say that I’m surprised to see them still undamaged. Good job, hyung!”

Namjoon sighs with a guilty expression on his face. “Hyung… Subin doesn’t know it, but I’ve already broken one of the two cribs and sent it back to get a new one.”

I am laughing out loud. Namjoon, the God of Destruction, strikes again. “For once, I believed in God and his miracles.”

“One day, God and I will meet on a bench and have a word face to face. I want to get a refund for every time I screw it up.”

“So, you don’t have free will but you’re a victim of the hand of the Lord, do you?

“Well, yes, when it’s more convenient, of course!” Namjoon says with a wink. “Every time I destroy something, it’s easier to blame it on God rather than put this on myself due to my clumsiness and inclement genetics.” He takes a long sip of wine. “I assessed this topic more than once in class. When we make a wrong move or make a decision that will prove to have an unfruitful outcome, our inner self seeks a scapegoat. God is usually the favorite target. He’s the father we’re eternally in conflict with. We want to punish him because we firmly believe that he has already punished us somehow. All us arrogant and irritable human beings don’t love to be scolded.”

“We’re arrogant and irritable?” I scoff at his words in a sarcastic way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Namjoon sighs. “This is exactly what I’m trying to teach my students. We can’t predict how things go most of the time, but our future is shaped depending on our previous actions. Punishments may follow our mistakes and we don’t even see that we suffer punishments not from the hands of others but our own hands. It’s a very democratic law of retaliation if you think about it. An eye for an eye, punishment for a mistake. Another reason why I’d never want to mess it up but, alas, I’m human as well!”

“What do you think about those who blame their misery on God? Although some people are perfectly aware that they are accountable for their actions, they still put it on God. What would you say to them?”

Namjoon stays quiet for a while, I can see how his brain is working right now. “I’d ask them how they can sleep at night if they aren’t able to even acknowledge their actions or, even worse, they know that but still run away from this awareness blaming their faults on third parties. Don’t get me wrong, Jimin-ssi, I have neither the power nor the obligation to lecture someone else about the right way to behave. I’m neither judge nor avenger because, since I have free will, I hardly understand those people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, Jimin-ssi. Why do we blame our shenanigans on God?”

“Shame? Desperation… Anger, maybe?” I wait for a moment. “Dumbness for sure.”

Namjoon nods. “All plausible reasons, undoubtedly. Most of the time, however, we do it because we’re allowed to. We were born with the option to point an accusing finger at our own kind for our actions. The free will served on a silver platter. Just think for a second if we didn’t have this possibility.”

I sigh. “You’re damn right…”

“I’ve just mentioned how we treat our own kind. And here comes the way we relate to God. I have some examples for you following several stages of reasoning. First, your wife is dying because a car hits her one day as she gets home after work. It’s unexpected, tremendously painful. We know how fate strikes the hardest. But we can’t stop ourselves from anthropomorphizing the cause of our sorrow and fate turns into God, the Almighty with human features.”

I try to follow him. “He’s like us somehow, part of our own kind.”

“Right! However, it’s even more problematic because he’s supposed to be the fairest, the most merciful, the kindest. But your wife is dying, and you can’t find a reason why it happened. Isn’t it easier to blame it on the Lord when you don’t have any other scapegoat? Yes, there’s the car driver, that piece of shit basically killed your wife. But ‘that piece of shit’ wasn’t even drunk: he’s a student, talented even, loved and appreciated. Can you blame it on him? In a burst of despair, you might be mad at your wife: why didn’t she pay attention? Maybe she was texting as usual while crossing the street. But are you sure you can blame it on the love of your life who is dying? I don’t think so. And then thousands of thoughts come to your mind: ‘it’s my fault, I wasn’t there’ you’d say for sure because pain is such a human feeling. In the end, God is ‘that piece of shit’ because he hurt you the most: he’s the Almighty, why is he taking your wife away from you?”

“That’s a lot to process, hyung. But this scenario only concerns faith.”

“Good point,” Namjoon smiles. “Then tell me what you usually do when ‘something wrong’ occurs. A destructive wildfire in Australia, a destructive explosion in Beirut… Or simply Trump as President of the United States, stupid wars all over the globe just for money, power, and petrol… Isn’t the world supposed to be a safe, just place? Why does God allow all this? Therefore, my point is that mankind falls mainly in two categories: believers and deniers. You simply worship God despite the pain, the sorrow, the injustices and find your relief in praying – the utmost form of trust in my opinion because believing is a hard commitment; or you change your mind any time something unexplainable or unforeseen happens. You thought you knew who God was but then you can’t find a solution or an answer and suddenly he turns into the Devil. How charming human beings are.”

“Do you believe in God, hyung?”

“I don’t, Jiminie. But believe me… If I did have God in my life, I’d be easier.”

“It’s a beautiful statement.” I simply say what I think. “So… The free will can be considered a sort of way to give vent to our frustrations, basically.”

“True enough. If men live, make mistakes, and can only punish themselves… Well, I can’t see how we managed to survive all these years if that’s the case. So here’s the free will.”

“If we could live without free will, it’d be a better but utopian existence. So why do we feel freer only when we think we’re entitled to choose something?”

“Man is by nature a social butterfly: we live to interact with others. If we constantly punish ourselves, we will be trapped in a steady vicious circle of frustration. We couldn’t tolerate life itself. The freedom to picking on someone, inherent in our free will, allows us to wake up calmer and, ironically enough, happier. It’s a wonderful escape valve, otherwise, we’d be like ever-erupting volcanos.”

Namjoon stretches and yawns. He looks like an innocent child and, this thought, makes me grow even fonder of him. “Despite this, hyung, I’d probably feel like I’m dying without my free will.”

He simply nods and adds, “I agree. I love my free will as well because every time I stumble, I’m wrong or I break something, I know I have the possibility to unscrew this magnificent valve and blame my misadventures on someone else. Even though deep down I know that I’m guilty.”

“We choose to do wrong because we can.” I sigh in disbelief. “It’s just that… Simply because we can.”

“Yes, Jiminie. You look shocked…” He laughs but then he suddenly stares at me intently, that gaze when he wants to tell me something important, meaningful. “If we didn’t have the chance to do wrong, we’d always do what is considered to be right. But would it be free will still?”

Subin calls us over to the table and we have a peaceful dinner together. Namjoon mentions his students, their upcoming exams, and complains about the illegal quantity of academic papers that he will be forced to correct. At his words, Subin shows her distress because she would like to save paper and as many trees as possible. A noble but unrealistic mission.

If Hoseok were here, he would probably start kissing her from head to toe. Hoseok and Subin are passionate defenders of the environment. Whenever Subin has a day off, she joins Hoseok and thousands of students on Fridays for Future.

Our conversation also shifts to Subin’s pregnancy and the two twins. Unsurprisingly, I find out that Namjoon is more nervous than Subin to the point of waking up in the middle of the night and going to the twins’ room to check their onesies too afraid of previously choosing the wrong size.

Subin is just bothered by the weight of her baby bump. She always has back pain and morning sickness is more frequent. Apparently, she will be in her sixth month of pregnancy at the end of December, and then she will get a maternity leave until September of the next year. The twins will be finally here in April and they are both dying to have them in their warm arms.

After dinner, I greet them both – thanking them for the hundredth time – and head home. Whenever I see them, I am always calmer afterward. They have this sedative effect on me, and I truly need it in this period. I book a ride on my Uber app and, after ten minutes, I collapse on the back seat. While an unfamiliar indie-rock song plays on the radio, I close my eyes and focus on the driver’s whistling.

I think about Namjoon’s words, my trusted, unpaid therapist. We all make mistakes because we simply have the chance to do so. Therefore, I do wrong because I can. I never thought about my faults in this way.

My mind goes back to him, it is always him. I left my lover for possibly futile, not-so-insurmountable reasons in the eyes of strangers. But deep down I know that, if I left him, those reasons counted – even if they were confused, judgeable, and inconvenient. They were valid for me: this is what I have started to believe. Even if you love someone like crazy, maybe, this does not mean that you should be blinded by this overwhelming feeling. Love is not enough at times.

I could have stayed with him – the easiest, yet the unhealthiest option available – and deny my free will. I chose differently. However, I did not expect to feel so disorientated after leaving my safe habitat behind. I was just a snail, I started missing my shell as soon as I desperately disappeared into my future.

Whenever it comes to face my regrets, though, I wish I were brave enough to give him some explanations – I simply wish I were kinder not to leave him alone and empty. How easy it is to run away from consequences. Perhaps, I never really stopped loving him, I just loved my dream of being Park Jimin without him more. Do I know why? No, I do not.

Those times when my heart calls me into question, it always seems dumbstruck due to my inconsistency. I do say that I love him, I do admit my regret of leaving, but then I defend what I did with full conviction. What an intriguing, selfish mess I am. So unstable, so human.

Now I am having a conversation with myself: please, try to understand that my emotions are not binary codes. There is no way to decode them. I am a 28-year-old man who still loves the same person, maybe even more than three years ago. But I cannot say it for sure. I packed my stuff and left to feel possibly happier, yet I still do not know what happiness means.

The rational part of me may argue that I basically outsmarted myself. How long do I have to finally get my redemption? I need someone to tell me if loving myself more than anything is a flaw. He never forced me to love him yet being with him made me feel wrong at times.

Loving us both was easier said than done. And even if it sounds nonsense, I do love him. The real question is: do I love him for real or does his memory makes me love him? My doubts swallow me in a vortex of uncertainty and uneasiness.

Honestly, I do not even remember whether and which wrongs I blamed on him. I cannot even describe our last conversation. I can still picture our unmade bed with that familiar smell of sex hanging in the air – silent sex after weeks of exhausting tensions and stupid quarrels.

We exploded like two lost stars in a dark galaxy of negligence and omission. Confusing yells and flying pillows surrounded us, our rage was only interrupted by bitter tears, quiet hiccups, and heavy sighs. He did not expect it to be over, he never thought we could come to an end.

As I argued with him trying to protect me, I also defended him from myself. I was fighting a war against two enemies at once. Sense and sensibility railed against and got the better of me while they ripped each other to shreds. And when I thought that peace might come after the war, only chaos was injected into our hearts.

Did he really believe that I did not want to stay safe within the walls of our home? What kind of fool would deprive himself of all comforts of a life in two? Yet, I never craved convenience, opportunism, or parasitism. Even if stayed in that familiar environment, I am sure that I would have felt the need to escape sooner or later. At that moment, I tried to remind myself of who we had been and who we were, trying to imagine who we were going to be if only we had the courage to no longer be together.

I should have explained to him that his view of things was often too childish, unrealistic and it hardly reflected the inevitable rottenness of coupledom; or that problems could not be solved with toasted bread and scrambled eggs in the morning and a gentle stroke under the sheets at night. And I should have realized that it was fine to be immature or frivolous at times because joyfulness is a flower that mostly blooms in youth.

On the verge of breaking up, ahead of our upcoming abandon, I left him while still craving for his love and attention; he started loving me less as he was being dumped. From this perspective, who is the one to blame? I thought I was stronger, yet I fell harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: (There's) Always something there to remind me by Dionne Warwick


	9. The Underdog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will accept my final decision whether I decide to still be a lamb or become a wolf. The awakening of my fierceness is the only thing that matters to me with or without a pack."
> 
> or
> 
> It's Christmas Eve and Jimin helps Hoseok and the Kimchi staff during a charity event. He finds out more about his friend and himself as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you're going to find out more about Hobi, Yugyeom and Jaebeom. I really like how love is addressed and perceived in this chapter. My heart is melting! Leave a comment if you want and let's share our feelings!

“Here’s the last one, then we can go,” Hoseok says as he loads a big cardboard box into his van.

“Exactly by 6 p.m. as you predicted!”

“I know,” he smiles proudly, “It’s not the first year I’m doing this, Jiminie. I’m the king of charity events by now.” He keeps smiling at me and closes the trunk lid. We both get in. “Do you mind listening to some music?”

“Are you even asking? Wow me!”

Hoseok starts the car and, as soon as he drives, the first song on the CD player is already echoing in the car.

I listen to it for a few seconds. “Jackie DeShannon?” I ask cocking my eyebrow. “I didn’t know you like this kind of music. Consider me starstruck.”

“This track is a must! It melts your heart just as Christmas does.”

“Sappy,” I tease to make fun of him.

“I’m corny and proud of it!” He exclaims widening his eyes.

“ _What the world needs now is love, sweet love. No, not just for some but for everyone_.”

Hoseok and its cooperative organize a feast at Christmas Eve in the Bronx every year to offer a proper dinner and a moment of joy to the underdog. It is not the classical charity dinner – usually repetitive and, honestly, a bit tasteless as well – but a real proper dinner full of delicacies of all kinds. Hoseok spares no expense on such occasions and you can tell.

Through the donations that they collect during all winter, Hoseok and his collaborators can buy each child a toy and school equipment. They also give parents meal vouchers or checks to spend in their shops or affiliated supermarkets that are involved in this initiative.

Hoseok’s agri-food cooperative _Kimchi_ has become particularly well-known in the last three years after a massive publicity campaign in all New York City thanks to state funding and private donations. I still remember the billboards with Hoseok’s empathetic expression in the foreground, surrounded by his employees and some trusted clients as well, and its slogan “ _Grab a snack, share a smile_.” Since that day, he has been given the nickname ‘J-Hope.’

When he started his business, Hoseok had absolutely no idea what the future was having in store for him. To be honest, I do not even think that he has ever asked himself. He is not a great thinker: he is a man of hard facts. Despite initial great difficulties and several failures along the way, especially those times when his cooperative threatened to dissolve due to high taxes and maintenance costs, he never let these things destroy his spirit.

As soon as he moved from Seoul to the Big Apple together with his two childhood friends, Yugyeom and Jaebeom, he focused on launching a new business based on the assumption that the production of organic food must indeed follow and respect eco-sustainability, yet it must be a source of help and supply to the homeless, refugees, unemployed, and underprivileged.

As they grew up in a hopeless and rough neighborhood themselves, they know damn well that feeling of waking up in the middle of the night craving for a piece of bread or some crumbs. To them, food is not gold, it is just a product of the earth. It turns into gold only if you deny it, increasing its economic value as a weapon of disparity and inequality. The fight against this type of economic philosophy and strategy is their mission.

There are so many activities that the cooperative offers during the year. _Kimchi_ delivers food supplies to school cafeterias in Queens and the Bronx at least twice a week. Moreover, always collaborating with these schools, the cooperative organizes gardening courses and lectures on environmental protection to encourage eco-sustainability and to raise awareness on climate change.

Most of the students enrolled in these schools take to the streets to keep alive the Fridays for Future with almost all _Kimchi_ ’s employees. This is the reason why Hoseok decided to work half the day every Friday and work all day on Sundays so he can demonstrate as well.

In the last period, _Kimchi_ has been invited several times to take part in some meetings with other companies and businesses in the agri-food sector to seek agreements on food production at zero kilometers. They often discuss the purchase of solar panels to exploit more renewable energy sources instead of oil or hard coal.

Hoseok’s shops – about three now – are a well-balanced combination between farmer markets and greenhouses. His clients may go there to buy groceries, cultivate organic grain, or simply have a healthy conversation about fertilizers, hoes, and plant seeds. All of _Kimchi_ ’s products are GMO-free, and they are produced by using renewable energy sources like solar or water power.

“ _Lord, we don't need another meadow. There are cornfields and wheat fields enough to grow._ _There are sunbeams and moonbeams enough to shine_.”

Even if Hoseok’s actions are extremely praiseworthy, they are probably not what I like the most about him. Despite definitely higher incomes, he is still the same carefree guy of the past with the same dauntless light in his eyes and the same springy walk.

He still lives in the apartment he rented after moving here – well, now he owns it – and shares it with other seven people. Two of these are the other founders of _Kimchi_ , Yugyeom, and Jaebeom – not to mention the coming and going of random people at any time of the day and night. Their apartment is a free zone of peace, acceptance, and reassurance.

It is big enough to have five or six people at most – not eight – but the tenants do not seem to be bothered at all. There are three bedrooms and they take turns to share them with whoever comes their way. Sometimes one of them sleeps on the couch or one of the giant poufs in the living room or even in the sleeping bags scattered around the apartment. They also have a two-seat hammock hanging near the entrance. I always walk into it when I get inside Hoseok’s place. The kitchen is obviously the biggest room and it constantly looks like a battlefield.

By having a first look at Hoseok and his collaborators, you would never tell that they turn over hundreds of thousands of dollars a month. They are simple guys wearing almost the same clothes even if worn out by time and work. They do not seek luxury or fortune, nor do they like or dislike such things. They are wealthy but they do not enjoy the lifestyles of the rich.

Someone may believe that the reason behind their attitude is their support for class warfare; the truth is that they are too busy to spend their time buying expensive clothes and enjoying gala dinners. Hoseok and his friends are simply happy to stay in their apartment in Arthur Avenue in the heart of the Bronx – “the real New York City,” as Hoseok always claims.

“I hope you don’t mind being with me and the rest of Kimchi tonight,” Hoseok interrupts my thoughts even if he does not sound concerned in the least.

“Do I mind? This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done on Christmas Eve, hyung. I promise,” I reply with a proud, sincere smile.

“Happy to hear that. Not everyone is glad to spend Christmas this way, you know, especially you since you didn’t have much of a choice,” he says to poke me without malice.

Namjoon and Subin are celebrating at their apartment with the respective parents who arrived from South Korea; on the contrary, Seokjin and Minseo are in Seoul to spend time with their relatives. Taehyung and Yoongi already had some stuff to do tonight – “last minute, totally unforeseen, change of plans,” Taehyung told me yesterday on the phone, I guess a nice way to imply that they were going to spend Christmas Eve with the not-so-recent addition in town, my lost lover.

“I consider myself extremely lucky. The other option was to stay alone at home or, even worse, go to Vermont with Mallory at her parents’ house.”

“Those parents you’ve never met so far.”

“That I _never intended to_ meet.” We both laugh. “So, yes, I’m happy with my choice, mainly ‘cause I spared myself an apocalyptic scenario.”

Hoseok is now driving while singing _Superstition_ by Stevie Wonder and waving his arm in the air like a cowboy with a lasso in his hand. He looks at me as to invite me to join him. Therefore, I start rocking my hips on the passenger seat in a clumsy way thanks to the seat belt. We head to the place while dancing and singing out loud.

After turning around the last corner of the street, we finally get in the parking lot of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine and stop the car by some other vans where other people are already unloading boxes. The university offered to use some of its big halls, where around 500 people are having dinner tonight. The guests are mostly unemployed or people with serious economic difficulties.

Hoseok and I, helped by other volunteers, go back and forth between the van and the kitchens. A dozen cooks have been working from dawn and there is no actual need for us to be here helping them cooking. Therefore, Yugyeom calls us to finish decorating the halls. Every table has a red tablecloth with gold and silver embroideries. At the center, there are wreaths of mistletoe and poinsettia among white candles, snow globes, and small figures of Santa Claus.

A girl is spreading colored streamers over the chairs and leaves a small bell and a sparkler on each seat. As I look around, I notice on the walls several ‘Merry Christmas’ streamers and paper banners made by some children from the neighborhood. Hoseok went around different schools last week to collect them all. Apparently, a _Kimchi_ ’s Christmas tradition that children respect and wait for with impatience every year.

We move from the dining halls to the biggest one used as a dancing hall where an impressive Christmas tree towers over the room; an indefinite quantity of presents inside of big burlap sacks lie on the ground at the base. The tree is a burst of lights and, in contrast to traditional Christmas trees, it does not have any balls, but hundreds of Christmas postcards hanging on its branches.

“Those are the next year’s promises and this year’s amends for bad actions,” Hoseok explains noticing my questioning look. “Both children and adults, if they want to participate, write their postcards as well as the paper banners every year. It’s a therapeutic way to always improve and forgive yourself.”

“It’s great, Hobi. Was it your idea?”

“Nope, a professor came up with that. She participates and supports our initiatives every year as a volunteer. She started many years ago, she is a senior now,” he jokes fondly. “Four or five years ago she had this brilliant idea and we put it into place. Children are always so happy, Jiminie. I can’t stand their faces without turning into a crying mess. And their relatives are happy as well.”

“It’s great. I know I’ve already said it and I sound like a robot, but it’s absolutely great.”

“If you also want to write a postcard, ask Jae. He’ll give you anything you need. Just hurry up ‘cause we have to be ready to open the gates at 9 p.m. and it won’t be too long.”

“Alright, sure.” I silently walk away and look for Jaebeom. I follow him and he gives me a pen, an already carved out postcard, and a red ribbon to hang on the tree. Then he leaves to help the others in the halls.

Promises and amends: it is better said than done. Both options are equally hard for me. Since I do not know how to begin with promises, I opt for the amends.

First, I apologize to my mother for being thoughtless and staying here all the time instead of visiting her in Korea; then I promise to visit her next year. I apologize to Mallory for not being the man she deserves, and I promise to let her go not to make her suffer even more. I apologize to my manuscript for killing it and promise to write another one as a punishment and personal redemption. Then I apologize to my friends for not calling them so often not for lack of interest but time, even if it cannot be an excuse, and I promise to be more available.

I even apologize to Spencer for lynching him all the time and, despite my good intentions, I admit on paper that – most likely – I will not be able to stop. So, I also apologize for being like this and I promise to be more considerate and less authoritarian. Lastly, I apologize to my lost lover for the millionth time for making him suffer and I promise to be less selfish and braver, more compassionate in the future.

Finally, I focus on how sorry I am for always treating myself the way I do. I apologize to Park Jimin the writer for doubting my talent and skills too many times; for this reason, I promise to be more tolerant and less modest. I apologize to Park Jimin the editor for losing interest in my job and being less enthusiastic, so I promise to make the right decision if my job makes me feel miserable and to find a solution instead of feeling sorry for myself. In the end, I apologize to Pak Jimin the man for always judging and putting me in the stocks without a fair trial. Therefore, I promise to forgive and love myself and not to make the same mistake ever again.

When I stop writing, I hang the postcard on the tree and leave the room with a stupid grin on my face. The only thing I am thinking right now is how wonderful life is at times. I feel lighter, lifted into the air like that postcard. I reach out to Hoseok and the other volunteers and carry out my last tasks. As predicted, as soon as the doors open, the first guests show up at 9 p.m.

In around half an hour, the halls are packed with people and all the guests have their own seats. Hoseok is busy going around among the tables to have a chat with tonight’s table companions and cheer them up. He is like a shooting star: every time he moves from a room to another one, he carries a beam of dazzling light with him. If you do not see him coming, you will be blinded by his personality.

I am currently serving meals at the tables with other young guys equipped with a green apron and armed with a genuine smile. As I walk among them, I notice how the room has been arranged: elders and children share the same tables as the adults are sitting next to each other at different tables, except for newborns or babies.

“Try to separate them and you’ll regret it,” Jaebeom says popping out of nowhere.

“What do you mean?” I ask curiously.

“Children always want to sit with the elders because they understand them better and have more fun together. Apparently, and I quote, ‘grandpas are our guardian angels and best playmates.’”

“Can’t blame them. My grandma is the best memory from my childhood,” I explain softening at the thought of my grandmother, a beautiful and energetic chatterbox.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know what it means. My grandpa died before I was born. My older brothers had met them though and they used to have the same opinion of those kids over there.” We look at the most chaotic table in the room where some children make a racket and their grandparents, instead of scolding them, make even more noise as they tickle their grandkids. “That’s how it is, isn’t it?”

“What, hyung?”

“We become the best version of ourselves only when we’re moving towards the end of our life. I’m glad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also a shame if you think about it. You finally understand that you’re better than before only after years of sacrifice, struggles, hard work…”

I get where this conversation is heading to and so I add, “Exactly. You know you’re a better person when you start noticing your calloused hands, gray hair and-”

“Limp dick.” We laugh.

“Especially the limp dick, of course, hyung. It’s when you get hard that you always fuck up.”

“Aish…” Jaebeom sighs. “I’ll be a better person only one step away from the grave. What a drag… Ah, Jot-gat-ne…” He sighs once again cheerfully despite feeling hopeless.

I smile. “When the time comes, someone will buy you the most expensive and eye-catching coffin ever made. You deserve it, hyung.”

“We deserve it. I hope so for both of us.” He winks at me and then leaves to serve at the tables.

After serving for more than an hour, I finally grab a bite together with some friends in the kitchens. During my break, I find out about the use of the small bells on the chairs. Every time a guest wants to make a speech, they get up and shake the bell so that everybody in the room follows them as well. Inside the room, it is just chaos, I must admit, but outside the halls, the sound of the tinkling bells is almost touching.

All these people are victims of constant hardship and rip the silence of their misery apart standing up at the tinkling of these bells. The ringing and thunderous sounds are the harmonious plea of almost 500 abandoned, forgotten, disrespected, abused, and alienated lives.

When dinner is over, everybody stands up and sings while waving the sprinklers in the air. As some people kiss, some others give hugs or take their beloved ones by their hands. Some children run around, some others stick their tongues out at their grandparents or sit quietly on their chairs shoulder to shoulder with the elders.

The staff joins the chorus and we all feel as if the weight of our daily lives is leaving room for the enchanting relief of hope. Between the heat of arms hugging me and the warmth of my reborn aching soul, I drink in the affection of complete strangers and old acquaintances. The smell of cinnamon cookies on the decorated tables makes me feel at home. The joy of unexpected things and unplanned actions, this is what Christmas truly is.

After singing several Christmas hits, we all move to the main hall where Jaebeom, Yugyeom, and other volunteers are giving the presents to the kids. Hoseok and other collaborators are distributing some checks and meal vouchers among the adults gifting them with hugs, kind smiles, handshakes, and pats on the shoulder.

These skin on skin actions really matter; this is what people usually remember after years. I have been told that the world will end in indifference and every time I hear that, I am simply perplexed. We have the solution right in front of our eyes, yet we cannot see or use it due to our arrogance. It is the touch that will save our existence.

When the gifts’ distribution is over, the dancing starts. Children jump around never stopping or getting tired. They dance as if they do not need to catch their breath as if this night will never end. Their hands move towards the sky as they scream and laugh, their smiles echoing the bliss of their souls.

The elders are visibly tired but some of them are not afraid of their age and go wild on the floor to the rhythm of the music. Some others rock their hips with the aim of being maliciously naughty like youngsters in the midst of their puberty. I smile at their alleged lack of innocence and their funny and hilarious movements. There are a few elders sitting on some chairs against the wall who look at their raging fellows rolling their eyes. They also seem to watch over their dear ones like the lighthouse keepers do with ships in the far distant sea.

Hoseok suddenly grabs my arm and drags me with him to dance. I feel rusty at first, I think I am moving out of tempo and regret not being that adolescent from my youth with a mighty fine body and passion for contemporary dance. My body is still the same, more or less, just a bit exhausted after years in a suffocating office, but I am not a good dancer anymore, not that I have ever been a good one. I was talented but not so patient.

I just try to enjoy the moment telling myself that this is not a dance competition: it is just fun mixed with sweat. I finally let myself go and, at the center of the floor, I dance with anyone who comes in my way. Among these moving bodies, quite often comically uncoordinated like me, I have a pleasant rendezvous with my young self and all my past self-pity is running away from me with hat in hand. I am finally healing.

Exhausted, I move away from the crowd and sit next to two elders who are sleeping as they lean on their walking sticks. They seem mummified and totally unbothered by the uproar surrounding them.

As I try to catch my breath, a couple on my left is arguing over which one of them has to lull their sleeping baby to give the other a moment of relaxation. By the tone of their voice, I can tell that both would like to dance rather than standing aside to lull their child – a child who has probably already sucked out all their patience to let them put him to sleep.

“I’ll keep him.” Both look at me surprised or maybe just shocked. “If you want, I’ll keep him. I’m sorry, I happened to overhear your conversation and-”

“Just keep him, please. I don’t want to sound like I’m giving away my baby to a stranger but please, just keep him with you,” the woman says impatiently. “I’m honestly taking advantage of your help…”

“And unawareness,” the man adds ironically pointing at his son.

The woman smiles. “Yeah, I’m taking advantage of you and letting myself have a moment to relax with my husband. Please, don’t think I’m a reckless mother if I leave my son with you but, Jesus Christ, I do need to have my freedom back!”

I giggle amused. “Lucky for you, I’m not a social worker,” I reply ironically. “I’m just a childless man, reckless enough to help you out.”

The man pretends to be disappointed and says, “What a shame… We finally thought we could get rid of him!” We all laugh and then the woman gives me his son, a three or four-year-old chubby baby, grabs his husband by his arm, and together they move to the dancefloor where most of the guests are moving like dancing maenads.

I try to let the baby sleep in my arms in a comfy position and I gently start lulling him. His small head is a dead weight on my right arm. It is not the first time that I hold a baby in my arms but, on those rare occasions, I always feel like I am unable to do it properly. I do not know if it is because of my sexuality, so I have always thought that I do not need to have a child in my life thanks to a messed up status quo according to which I am deprived of any desire of paternity.

Whether it is due to the emotional instability that drives me not to want a child without a companion or my natural disposition that makes me think I will never be a good parent, I am simply that guy who lulls other people’s children when they are already sleeping. I help out when the hardest work has already been done.

Yugyeom joins and sits next to me at some point. He looks like he is having a meltdown due to war dances in a university hall full of tipsy people. His Hawaiian shirt is wetter than water itself. Although he looks absolutely awful right now – his red swollen face looks like it is going to explode – he is still very attractive. The secret of his charm lies in his big yellow eyes. Like a howl inspecting the darkness late at night, he turns around to look at me.

“How’s the war going so far?” I ask ironically anticipating his question. “It looks wet on you.”

He snorts and ignores my question. “Park Jimin and his desire for paternity. You’ve caught me off guard.”

“A simple favor. At least I feel less lonely.”

Yugyeom looks at the sleeping baby on my lap and points at him. “Yeah, good company,” he adds giggling. “I bet your ears are ringing so loud for all the interesting conversations you two are having.”

“True,” I answer and signal him to get closer. “He’s a tireless chatterer. He talks in his sleep as well,” I explain, and we try to chuckle as quiet as possible as the baby boy keeps murmuring something about a teddy bear and a chocolate bar.

“Kids… Endless sources of energy.”

“I wonder who they remind me of…” And we both look at Hoseok who is slow dancing with Jaebeom. What the…

“Energetic and sensual,” Yugyeom says maliciously like a man who knows what he is talking about. I stare at him more intently. “Lucky Jaebeom and lucky-”

“So, are they together now?”

“Well… They’ve been together for a while. He’s also with him.”

I think I have just heard him wrong. “Also?”

“Yeah, also…” He repeats amused as he waits for me to put the pieces together. I still do not get it, so he simply adds, “With me, hyung.”

“With you?”

“What? Am I that loathsome?”

I snort rolling my eyes. “With him and you. Hoseok? Are you sure it’s my Hobi?”

Yugyeom laughs. “Park Jimin is a prude, who’d have thought? I’m sorry but your fame precedes you.”

I frown upon hearing his words. “Never stop being astonished, hyung. It’s just that… I didn’t expect it. He mentioned having a relationship, I didn’t know he was sleeping with you precisely. Well, both of you.”

“The three of us are in a long-established relationship, Jimin-ssi. It just happened naturally, you know, working and living together. I guess this thing about sharing in harmony fucked with our heads.” He closes his bright eyes as he smiles.

“Fucked with you in all senses, apparently.”

“Shhh… Children shouldn’t hear such things.” He chuckles. “It isn’t a conventional relationship, I know that, but we’re happy. So damn happy I can’t even describe the feeling.” He turns his attention to his two lovers in the distance and I cannot tell what is going on in his mind. “When you think nothing good will ever come in your way, then you win the lottery. Twice. I’m the richest, the luckiest shithead, hyung.” He wipes his forehead with his shirt. After a while he adds, “Talking about your Hobi, I’m blessed with his beautiful presence every single day. He’s indeed the epitome of joy.”

“Yeah… He’s the Sun, a bit like King Midas as well. Everything he touches, he turns it into gold.”

“Ugh, you know me well… It’s only for the money.” We laugh. “That’s why I love him.”

“And you love Jaebeom-ssi as well.” It is not a question but a statement.

“You right. I can’t explain why or how: I simply love him differently but equally at the same time.”

“Where did it all start?” I ask out of curiosity. As we talk, the child winces and opens his eyes for a brief second. Protected by the veil of sleep, he does not feel scared seeing my unfamiliar face and goes back to his enchanting dreams. _This is also a gift_ , I silently tell myself.

“Between a potato and a carrot… And any other vegetable we have in the greenhouse.” He smiles recalling the moment in the back of his mind. “We fell in love with each other over time and being physically attracted to one another made everything easier. Jae and I used to be in a relationship at a young age, but it ended in a friendship. Hoseok was stuck with us all the time and both Jae and I started having deeper feelings for him. Jae was the one to take the first step.”

“So, you stepped in later…”

“Well, if you can say it this way… It’s not just a matter of ‘stepping in’ to be honest but fearlessly accepting what I wanted the most to stop feeling so incomplete.”

“Was it about your sexual orientation?”

“Uh uh… My parents never accepted me being gay and they were one of the reasons why Jae and I broke up the first time. Probably the main reason. But then I just wanted my misery to end. I needed to be free and love with passion and commitment.”

“What happened next?”

“Well… Jae was my reference point and the most trusted friend I had. He’s always been protective and fierce. Hobi was a change in my life in a way. He was fun and curious and happy to me. When I saw them together the first time, I was more frustrated than jealous. I kept closing myself off to them too afraid of God knows what.”

“Then you accepted your desires at some point…”

“Yes, and do you know what’s even crazier? They knew about me; they had already understood without me saying a thing. They had been waiting patiently until I made up my mind and decided to gift myself with both of them. I’m greedy, apparently.” We giggle at the same time. “When I finally poured my heart to them, they basically laughed at me. I felt so stupid.”

I let his words sink in my head. “Do you ever feel like you’re at fault?”

“Do you mean if I believe that one of us is better than the others or can give more?”

“Yes, I mean… How do you feel in those situations where Jaebeom-ssi does something that makes Hobi happy? Something that you’ve previously failed at possibly. Or maybe it’s Hobi who makes him happy instead of you and you feel like being left out.”

Yugyeom waits a few seconds before answering and then shrugs. “I have no idea, hyung. It never happened to me. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

I cannot tell if it is true, but he sounds honest. “How’s that even possible?” I ask in disbelief. “C’mon, it’s already hard when it’s just two people involved. Can’t imagine with three lovers!”

“That’s the point of everything. Most people aim to please their partners all the time as if it’s a moral duty more than a pleasure. It’s not like that in my opinion. All of us should understand that satisfaction and denial are the two ends of the same storyline. It’s true that it’s hard to feel satisfied at times when three people are involved because, for example, if I want something, I have two lovers who can satisfy my wishes. But at the same time, believe me, it’s even more complicated if the contrary happens. If I don’t get what I want, this means that both Hobi and Jae aren’t able to give me what I need and so they deny me something. Two chances out of two gone in a heartbeat.”

“That sounds scary… And challenging…”

“I know… But, hyung, if you don’t insist, especially not in a disdainful way, no one can deny you a single damn thing. You don’t ask so you don’t expect anything in return, therefore you’re equally happy or even happier than before. But when you ask, you can be sure that your requests will be satisfied. Twice, in my case.”

Yugyeom pats me on the shoulder, a sympathetic look on his face, and leaves me to head towards his two lovers to slow dance together.

In their ecosystem, the natural order of things is equal to coexistence without prevarication. There is no room for entitled predators and dominated preys. They are a pack: they are nourished by their love and respect out of necessity, not for fun; they run side by side and communicate thanks to their deep inner connections. Even if other packs hinder or denigrate them, these three wolves do not succumb to their threats: as long as they are together, there is no way they can be defeated.

In the distance, I look at them like a lamb fearing and admiring their strength and determination. Without a pack, I hide between bushes and inside dens to survive animals’ attacks and bad weather. I forget that the aim is living as these three wolves do: running free in the middle of a wild meadow.

Without a pack, I think I am weak, and I find comfort in my self-pity. The pack makes wolves stronger but not invincible. This is the story lambs usually refuse to listen to. And if they do listen, they still do not believe that it is even possible.

I keep thinking about my postcard on the tree and for the last time I apologize to Park Jimin the dreamer who wanted to live without hiding under safe comforts and felt brave enough to face the challenges of life in the wild, all alone for once. This is why I promise myself that I will accept my final decision whether I choose to still be a lamb or become a wolf. The awakening of my fierceness is the only thing that matters to me with or without a pack.

I am tired of letting me down, I am tired of forcing myself to be an underdog when food, possibilities, and freedom are within my reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: What the world needs now is love by Jackie DeShannon


	10. The Goodbye Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When our lips meet, there is no fire setting a forest ablaze, but the flickering flame of a candle that weakens in the dark of the night. It is in the time of farewells that you crave for a never-ending bond."
> 
> or
> 
> It's New York Eve. As Jimin finally spots the love of his life, he needs to bid farewell to someone he still cares about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section of the story is over. I'm feeling sad right now, yet I adore this chapter. Jimin's self-pity gives way to self-acceptance and Jungkook is about to step in. Can't wait to share other chapters with you. Loving someone is a hard task, don't you agree? I hope you all feel appreciated and cared about.

I went on a road trip around three years ago after leaving the apartment that I had been sharing with him. Without saying anything, I packed my stuff, I rented a car and then I started my journey. I drove for almost two weeks all alone among desolate roads, filthy motels, and packed diners.

At that time, I left behind my beloved New York, the city that used to be the cause of my sorrows and bitter memories, and I wandered aimlessly. In the silence of my rented car, on the car mat of the passenger seat, bottles of Jensen’s Bermondsey Dry Gin inside grocery bags were my loyal travel companions.

My routine was always the same: I drove until I wanted to, distracted by landscapes that drew me in when passing by or bothered by the windshield wipers of my car that often swept away the raindrops on the windscreen.

During the road trip, I stopped to stretch my legs a bit at times and grab a bite to eat, usually at some diners or gas stations. My snack was often a pile of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, the favorite meal of the person I was desperately trying not to think about. What I masochist I am.

Tired of driving, I spent my nights in the dark of some cheap and featureless motels, exactly how I felt in those days, and I dragged myself into unknown bedrooms to fall onto the bed. Every night was just a sequence of mechanic actions: undressing, lying on the bed, and drinking my dear bottles of gin until the last drop.

This is what my road trip was all about: a hopeless and aimless car ride with needlessly long and boring breaks in grey bedrooms and traumatic awakenings with my head halfway down the toilet. Fourteen days of absolute silence, heartbreaking despair, and unpleasant monotony.

I vaguely recall some moments of lucidity between exhausting crying and overwhelming drinking. However, these moments are still almost inaccessible since my mind decided to lock them in a drawer. It feels strange: if I try to go back to that trip with the eyes of my mind, I cannot see properly, it is like I had left sighted but returned blinded.

There are no clear mental images of those days: they are still locked in that secret drawer and, after years, they have turned into blurred and faded pieces of memory. Despite this, surprisingly enough, I remember the sound, smell, and taste of that infernal journey well, a road trip towards a heavenly redemption that I was not able to reach in the end.

Now, sitting in the backseat of a cab with Mallory and Demi, confused by their chatting, I can smell in the air the crispy bacon and American coffee of those mornings so distant but still familiar or the gasoline when I got out of the car to fill up at the gas station. I still recall my disappointment at the sight of dusty motel rooms and unwashed greyish sheets.

Closing my eyes, I taste in my mouth the smoky bitterness of my evening cigarette when I laid with my back to the wall and my heavy head down looking at my feet. I still taste the salty tears mixed with thick snot after hours of crying every time my lips were sipping gin; the acidic vomit that scratched my throat and burned my empty stomach.

As Mallory and Demi talk about politics and immigration, I hear again honking cars with impatient drivers in of those days; my heartbeats speeding up anytime someone looked at me hoping not to face a ghost from the past; the sound of the car trunk closing when I stepped in the car to hit the road once again.

Today, on New Year’s Eve, I travel with my mind to the most alienating, depressing, distressing two weeks of my entire life. In a constant fight with my persona and shattered by the concept of love I used to believe in, I resign myself to this unholy life.

With my back leaning against the seat and blinded by the neon signs of some bars and shops in the street, I am tired of being tired, I am angry to still feel this unmotivated anger, I am sad to still sink into this everlasting sadness.

Today, on New Year’s Eve, I would like to kick me in the balls and call out my name: I am the offender. I see myself running among the racing cars like a madman who escaped from an asylum, a madman in a suit and tie running for his freedom.

And this is exactly the moment in which I understand that I do not want to keep losing myself in a cruel life, I want a life that is good to me. Most importantly, I cannot drag those people who still love me unexpectedly down in the vortex of my misery, a kind of misery that does not exist and I make up every day just to feel less guilty.

My thought wanders to those two weeks, in particular to that guy driving like a fool, a guy I am not anymore. I am not even the guy all dressed up sitting right now next to two beautiful young women. I know I will be my real self tomorrow at the very beginning of a new year. I will finally have my moment, my redemption.

Now I know that the upcoming days are going to be fruitful, not miserable. Jimin is going to be him for once in the way he wants to. My life is going to be a succession of unknown, unpredictable tomorrows but still worth living. I have been looking for meaning: I am that meaning.

“Jimin, are you with us?” Mallory asks waving a hand in front of my face.

“Would you please get out?” Demi laughs at me. “We’re already late. Hurry up!”

Apparently, I have been in a trance state. “Yes, sure. Sorry.” I get out of the car and wait for them to join me on the sidewalk. I close the door after paying for the ride. We are celebrating at _The Django_ this year as well.

As soon as we get in, Demi and Mallory stop to chat with some mutual friends while I decide to reach the usual spot where Yoongi and Taehyung are sitting. Taehyung is basically the personification of joy right now in his natural habitat of party and fun, whereas Yoongi is a fish out of water since he is not really fond of _movida_. Despite his discomfort, I am happy that he let Taehyung drag him here, a remarkable event that deserves to be celebrated.

“Finally, Jiminie! Do you have a time zone in Brooklyn?” Taehyung asks irritated. “It’s my third cocktail already!”

“And I think it’s time to have a break,” Yoongi says pushing Taehyung’s cocktail away from his lips despite his complaints.

Taehyung scoffs. “Okay, drink mine then. Or I’ll save it for later.” He smiles but suddenly he snorts. “I’m starving by the way thanks to you latecomers. You know I don’t like waiting.” He is clearly waiting to hear me apologize. I do not because I like to annoy him especially when he is tipsy or, even better, drunk.

“Don’t you think three cocktails are a little bit too much for a wait of 20 minutes?” I ask him as I lie about the time on purpose.

“30 minutes, hyung!” Taehyung exclaims. “40, actually,” he adds melodramatically knowing that he is also lying right now.

I roll my eyes and smile. “You and alcohol get along too well. Could you grant me your forgiveness, Your Majesty?”

Taehyung mumbles something and looks at me furrowing his brows. His straight face does not match the grin on his lips. “Tonight, you must call me hyung and you can’t drop honorifics.”

“You’re the same age, Tae,” Yoongi points out. “You’re talking nonsense.” Yoongi and I look at each other and laugh. We both love Taehyung for the same reason: his loving silliness.

I do miss hanging out with Yoongi though, especially since we both close ranks when it comes to bothering Taehyung, although, in reality, the exact opposite happens: they both prefer bickering with me or make some sarcastic quips about my actions as well. Taehyung’s humor has a field day with Yoongi’s. Probably, this is the reason why they live together, or maybe not. Anyway, no man can say.

“Suga, you’re always on my side, under every single circumstance. Even when you shouldn’t,” Taehyung admonishes him punching his shoulder.

Yoongi frowns and narrows his eyes, the usual expression he has when he is coming up with something, looking like a cat. “Why would I do that?”

“Easy! New year, new life!” Taehyung laughs by himself pleased as if he has just said the most obvious thing ever. I keep looking at them amused waiting for a reply.

“It isn’t midnight yet, Tae. It’s still this shitty year,” Yoongi says making fun of the not-sober-at-all joy of his flatmate.

“Apparently, there’s a time zone in Manhattan as well,” Taehyung says winking at me this time. “It’s already midnight here and you, my dear Suga, you should always be the most loyal to me.” Taehyung ends up drinking his cocktail all in one sip and then points a finger at Yoongi. “Be always on my side. Jiminie, your unmannered hyung here, doesn’t need your support after all…” He turns around and sticks his tongue out at me.

“If I weren’t a hundred percent sure that you’re Tae, I could easily mistake you for Jin right now. Are you sure that the exchange of identities isn’t a thing in Manhattan as well?”

Yoongi follows me. “Rich people always do weird things…” We both laugh and Taehyung also joins us even though he is already about to reply.

“You’re rich as well, Yoongi. Don’t judge your own social status.”

Yoongi mutters something in a low voice and as they argue, I see Demi and Mallory sitting with us holding Martini Royal in their hands. Then, when I finally spot a cute waitress coming towards us, we order food and another round of cocktails hoping that Taehyung will last at least until midnight toast. There are still three hours left.

“Long time no see, Mal!” Taehyung exclaims a little bit too cordial and friendly tonight. He hardly is so enthusiastic to see her when he is sober. It is odd and we know it. They do not know each other so well to be genuinely interested in establishing a real friendship.

Taehyung looks at her. “That red velvet dress looks amazing on you. I’m a man, but I’m jealous right now.”

Mallory laughs honestly pleased. “Thanks, Tae. I’m a woman, but I’m jealous of your smooth, perfect skin every time I see you.” Well, apparently, they have become the best of friends and I did not have a clue. Or maybe it is just New Year’s Eve and we all are friends no matter what.

“This is the best compliment I’ve got this week! Thanks, Mal!”

Demi giggles and raises an eyebrow to question him. “This week, uh?”

Taehyung adores Demi. When they are together, they are far worse than two Jin put together. And I have this feeling that tonight will be no different. “You couldn’t see that coming? Look, I’m a popular target.”

As Yoongi rolls his eyes and I laugh, Demi keeps going. “No doubt. I’m sure an egoless man like you don’t mind it.”

“Good things must be appreciated, darling. C’mon, I’m handsome. Give credit where credit’s due.”

Yoongi snorts. “You little bitch.” We all laugh this time. Our food and drinks finally arrive and as we eat, we keep chatting.

“So, Mal… What about Vermont? Was it good?” Taehyung asks.

“Good indeed. It’s always nice to be with my family.”

“You should take our dear Jiminie with you next time. I’m sure he’ll love it,” he adds winking at me as I give him a death stare. Yoongi chokes on his food.

“Well… I guess Vermont is nice especially if you live in a big mansion in the middle of a wood,” Demi adds. “I bet chopping trees and running away from wolves are entertaining activities. Not to mention serial killers with a chainsaw ready to jump on you out of nowhere.”

Taehyung and Mallory laugh, I roll my eyes. Yoongi still keeps silent. “Vermont would never be as entertaining as seeing Yoongi uninterested when it comes to our conversations,” I add noticing Yoongi lost in his thoughts.

“Pay no attention to him, it’s routine,” Taehyung says smiling. “Even when he’s interested, he’s still uninterested.”

Demi giggles. “Attention deficit?”

Yoongi simply shrugs. “No, it’s just a shitty personality.” And so, we all laugh once again for the millionth time tonight. Maybe I was wrong: it is Yoongi the funniest guy I know.

“What about the others?” Demi asks. “It’s been a long time since I saw them last time. I’m going to start thinking they suffer from Yoongi’s same avoidant personality disorder, even though he’s the most brazen rapper on Planet Earth.”

As Yoongi replies with a “Cheers!” raising his glass, I answer. “Namjoon and Subin are still at home with their families. Jin and Minseo will be back from Korea next week.”

“Subin is the one pregnant, right? I always forget,” Mallory says.

“Not Minseo, for sure,” Taehyung adds. “At the thought of taking care of twins and Jin-hyung as well, she would probably choose to have an abortion.”

“Tae!” Yoongi admonishes him as Taehyung keeps drinking.

“She’s a pediatrician, no less!” Taehyung finally says shaking his head in disbelief. “Life is funny, isn’t it?”

We all chuckle connecting our souls together with eyes closed and full bellies. Now that I am thinking of Minseo, I would like to have a chat with her one day; she is the only woman I know who constantly works with children and never wishes to have one. Maybe this is the reason: her job kills her maternal instinct.

“Hoseok?” Mallory asks.

“Uh, well… He’s busy,” Taehyung replies weirdly sounding too suspicious to go unnoticed. He seems to be holding back something. I stare at him. “He’s with-”

“Friends,” Yoongi swoops in and stares back at me this time. “Some friends that he didn’t have the chance to see for a long time.”

Then I understand, he is definitely mentioning the new city addition.

“Well, that’s a bummer. I love dancing with him, he’s a phenomenal dancer,” Mallory replies a little bit sad. “The way he moves his hips… He’s even better than Shakira.”

“His hips don’t lie!” Demi exclaims.

Yoongi is finally smiling. A sincere, amused smile. “Maybe he’s coming later tonight with Jaebeom and Yugyeom.”

“And other friends as well,” Taehyung hurries to add not to throw salt on wounds, but because he is trying to warn me somehow. “Maybe you’ll meet them!”

Yoongi slaps the back of his head gently. “Drink, at least you’re quiet.”

“So, guys, who want to do some shots?” Demi asks. “I already know Tae’s answer,” she adds winking at Yoongi and then says, “And also Yoongi’s. Mal? Jimin?”

“I’m down for it,” Mallory replies.

“Good gooourrrl,” Taehyung exclaims a little too much excited and tipsy, drunker than tipsy to be honest. “C’mon then. And you, Jiminie?”

I look at Yoongi. “I’m staying here with hyung.”

The trio leaves and I sit alone with Yoongi who is giving me his full attention right now. We do not speak for a couple of minutes; we just move our bodies waving our heads and tapping our feet on the ground to the rhythm of _Let’s Shake_ by Brian Setzer.

Suddenly, the fatal comment arrives. “Jimin, you can ask. If you keep restraining yourself, you’ll implode.”

“Hyung, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He snorts and looks at me making me feel hopeless. “Aish, Jimin-ssi. Still the same old story.” It hurts hearing him say how cold I act towards my feelings.

He waves to the waiter a few meters away from us to come and, after five minutes, he stops at our table. Before he even opens his mouth, Yoongi says, “One gin tonic for me and a Mary Pickford for Mister Play Coy over here.”

“I don’t want a Mary Pickford-” I try to say unsuccessfully.

“Yeah, Jimin… We all know how much you want it.” The waiter seems honestly confused and still waits for us to order our drinks.

“Maybe now I have a different taste. Is it impossible to believe, hyung?” This time I ask in Korean because I speak Korean anytime I start being impatient or I am about to lose my temper.

Yoongi switch to our native language as well. “Or, hyung… You still have the same taste, but you’ve kept trying to numb your feelings. Both of us know that general anesthesia is the best remedy you have to run away from sorrow.”

 _What are you getting at, Yoongi?_ He is on the warpath and I want to know why. “Or, hyung, I don’t want to drink a Mary Pickford right now ‘cause I’ve been drinking Cosmopolitan all night. Is it too hard to accept?”

Yoongi squints his eyes. “It’s not hard to accept, it’s hard to understand. You’re hard to understand.”

The waiter fairly tries to interrupt our conversation. “I apologize, sirs, but I still don’t know what do you want to-”

“Nobody ever asked you to understand me, hyung. It’s none of your business. You shouldn’t care about me if that bothers you,” I talk back to him.

“That’s a low blow, Jimin.” Yoongi is pouting like an offended child. “I’m not condemning your behavior. I just want you to make the right choice without depriving yourself of things and people you deeply care about.”

“I can’t deprive myself of someone I don’t have,” I point out.

“Fair enough. You can’t because you don’t have him but still want him all the time. Why don’t you simply get back to the person you desire the most so we can just get it over with?”

So, Yoongi apparently already wanted to scold me tonight and I will not let him. “Why don’t we order our drinks and move on instead?”

“Of course, why don’t we skip this part for the billionth time so you can mope until the end of time?” Yoongi asks with a bitter mocking tone.

“I don’t want that fucking Mary Pickford, hyung. I had one too many. Another one won’t help an alcoholic. I’m in rehab.” I am exhausted.

“Better this way then,” Yoongi says pretending to agree with me. “Because even if you made up your mind and drank it again, you’d probably change your taste once again. And we’d be back to square one.”

His last sentence pushes me over the edge, and it seems to have the same effect on the waiter standing next to us tired of waiting a lifetime to get a stupid order. “Listen, sirs, I don’t understand... Korean? Japanese? Chinese? And I don’t know what’s wrong with you right now. This room is packed with people who want to drink and get their order as well, so please tell me if I have to bring that Mary Pickford or not!”

“Three Bay Breeze, please,” Taehyung says to him. It seems that he has eavesdropped on the last part of our conversation. He sits with us and then adds, “I apologize for these two men’s behavior who have apparently forgotten about their good manners. I swear that Koreans are usually gentlemen, not perfect idiots,” he booms out with his deep voice glancing at me and Yoongi.

The waiter finally seems to relax. “Apology accepted. And sorry for my behavior as well. I’ll bring you three Bay Breeze soon.” And then he leaves.

Taehyung seems to be about to order a mass murder. “Can you fucking tell me what’s wrong with you two?” He pauses as he leans against his chair with his arms crossed. “How long have you been back to kindergarten without me knowing?”

“Shut up, Tae. Stay out of this,” I reply abruptly regretting it immediately after.

Yoongi stiffens. “Don’t speak to your hyung like that ever again.”

As I open my mouth to reply, Taehyung interrupts me. “Suga, easy there, we’re simply talking.” He smiles at him, two exploding galaxies in his eyes. “So, shitheads, who is going to tell me what’s wrong?” No one says a thing, so Taehyung adds, “You never bicker. Never! Or at least not as often as Jimin and I do, so there must be a reason. Is it about-”

“Yes,” Yoongi says as I reply with a firm, “No!”

Taehyung giggles a bit and rolls his eyes. “Right, we’re definitely in kindergarten.”

“He didn’t want a Mary Pickford,” Yoongi tries to explain.

“Oh,” Taehyung simply says as if he perfectly understands the meaning of those words without further explanation.

“And apparently I no longer have the right to make my own decisions. Yoongi thinks he can decide on what I get to drink,” I explain getting defensive.

“Oh,” Taehyung repeats again. This time, he focuses on my words and analyzes my side of the story.

“I didn’t mean to force him. I only want him to make a coherent decision.”

“It’s not up to you to decide whether or not I need to make a decision, hyung,” I keep acting like a brat. “There’s nothing to decide anyway. I’m a free man and I drink what I want!”

“Are we still going through the metaphor of alcohol?” Taehyung asks ironically. Then he keeps quiet for some seconds to think about a logical reply, his senses altered by alcohol not helping him at all. “Suga, I’m afraid to tell you that you can’t stick your nose in Jimin’s business. When he’s ready, he’ll make his decision and open up to us.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen in shock not expecting this answer at all. I clearly imagined a completely different outcome. “But Tae…”

“Suga,” Taehyung scolds him in a peremptory way. “We’re not entitled to decide for him. So, apologize to Jiminie, and let’s move on.”

Before Yoongi can complain a little bit more, I say, “That’s not necessary. Yoongi-hyung doesn’t have to apologize. I know he worries for me. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“What a shithead…” Yoongi snorts as I look at him. “What? Don’t look at him like that… Like an innocent poor boy. ‘I’ll do what needs to be done,’” he repeats my words to mock me.

“Very mature of you,” I give him a death stare.

“Look who’s talking…” Yoongi mutters and then snorts. “Then hurry up and break up with Mallory ‘cause I can’t take this act of yours anymore. I’m sick of seeing you getting trapped in your own misery.”

The waiter brings our cocktails and put them on the table. Yoongi gets back to his point. “I didn’t tell you to drink that fucking Mary Pickford to force you. You know that already. It’s okay if you want something or someone else. I just want it to be real. Just make a fucking decision and stop being in conflict with your desires all the damn time. This mess in your head… Snap out of it.”

“Ouch, Suga… Don’t you think you’re exag-”

“Tae, please,” Yoongi interrupts him softly. “It won’t be long before the new year sets in and we’ll be, or at least we think we’ll be, good people. To be good, this is what we wish for after 365 days every year when we stand tall in a packed room with a glass of champagne in our hands as the clock strikes midnight.” He sighs and shakes his head. Right now, Yoongi looks older than he is. “I don’t care if you retrace your steps or make a move. I do care if you’re at least aware of what you do or want.”

“Hyung…” I whisper without thinking, too focused on his words and the way they make me feel: a sinking ship.

“Lemme finish, Jimin-ah.” Yoongi massages his temples. “Just try to get what or who you wish for. It sounds hard, but it’s easier than you think. If you don’t want anything, it’s fine as well. Not wanting something is already a goal somehow. Just choose, for God’s sake! You’ve been drowning in to yourself for three years and I can’t stand it anymore. I won’t be as tolerant as I’ve been with you. I’ll kick your ass if it’s necessary. I know our hyungs are more compassionate but the more they act this way, the more your liveliness fades away. I want an energetic, hungry Park Jimin because this is the man I’ve known for so many years and I miss him, deeply. The dummy of flesh I’m facing right now is nowhere as good as my real hyung is.”

After saying that, Yoongi gets up, takes his pack of Marlboro Red and a lighter from the pocket of his dark blue coat, and heads to one of the smoking areas. I know his words are not an admonishment but a life lesson. I am grateful to have him. However, I am too bothered to really appreciate his words because they hurt. Even though I deserve them, they hurt. I do not like to be scolded like a child.

“Jiminie,” Taehyung says taking and stroking my hand gently. “You know how rough Yoongi can be, even though he’s one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. It’s just his way to tell you ‘nan neol salanghae, hyung.’”

I scoff. “Maybe he’s the sweetest with you.”

“Don’t act like this, Jiminie. He didn’t mean to scold you. His words were more like a pre-match speech, a speech before the umpteenth match against your never-ending indecision. He wants to protect you because he cares. You’ve heard him! He often comes out as rude but deep down you’re aware of his good intentions. He’s part of your team as well. Suga wishes to win the final match by your side.”

I sigh and shrug. “I know, Tae. Don’t worry. Just give me some time to process his words. Right now, I just want to strangle him.”

Taehyung chuckles. “Call me if you need to bury his corpse…” He drinks his cocktail all in one sip and signs me to do the same.

As I put my glass on the table, he grabs my arm and leads me to the nearest room where about thirty drunk people are dancing – well, they’re staggering more than dancing – offbeat. It is clear that alcohol is already claiming the first victims of the night. We reach out to Demi and Mallory and then we all dance together.

We keep dancing for a while and then when I start being aware of the early signs of a bad intoxication that will not spare me in the morning, in my blurred and unfocused mental state, I hardly notice Hoseok who steps inside the room with Yugyeom, Jaebeom, and other four people.

They are standing at one of the corners of the room next to the door which leads to the bar. Due to the dimmed lights in the room, I cannot see their faces well.

Still, the person whose back I am staring at in the distance draws my attention. It is definitely him. My heart almost skips a beat when the person under my scrutiny is turning towards my direction, but suddenly Mallory jumps in front of me blocking the view unintentionally. My damn luck.

“C’mon, Jimin! Let’s go dancing!” She shouts to make me hear what she is saying, but I am too eager to find out who is that mysterious and intriguing, yet familiar figure.

“I need to pee. I’ll be back to dance soon, Mal. I promise,” I reply. Then I start walking towards Hoseok who is already looking at me. He seems weirdly cautious and, oddly enough, he is not smiling as he usually does. He whispers something to the man whose face is still unknown. Or this is what I keep telling myself.

As I am just a few steps away from them, a couple pushes me aside with a lethal shoulder spear. “Oh, sorry, dude. Fuck!” The man says as the woman stares at me unfocused. She is drunk as well. “Did we hurt you?”

 _Yes, it fucking hurts!_ I would like to say, but I simply reply, “No, it’s fine,” as I try to break free and finally reach Hoseok and his friends. But the woman adds, “Are you sure? We kicked you hard, I’m sswworry!” And so, she stands in front of me. Of course, I repeat, my damn luck.

“Relax, I’m fine. Just go back to dance…”

“Plweease, you mwust be hurwt. Lemme helpw yywwou!” She keeps mumbling something while I cannot even focus on what she is saying because, when I look at Hoseok and his friends, my target is already greeting them goodbye. What?

Trying to get there as soon as possible, I push the dancing couple away from me, but he is already on his way to leave the room. There are only Hoseok, Yugyeom, Jaebeom, and two strangers left.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the enigmatic figure walking out of the room, a coat in his hand. As I blink my eyes, he is gone. I feel like a commuter who sees the bus he was waiting for speeding in front of him, the one he was supposed to take but missed because he gets to the bus stop too late. Did I really need to take that bus, though?

“Hoseok,” I say abruptly even if I did not mean to. He notices how I purposely avoided to call him by his usual nickname.

He smiles at me but it feels like he is not really smiling. “Jimin, how formal!”

“Was that him?” I ask him bluntly.

The two strangers look at me in a curious way, or at least they are more curious to know what is wrong with me than Yugyeom and Jaebeom who are just taken aback by my reaction, which is completely reckless as well as unjustified. I still have to understand why I wanted to know who that person was myself. And, above all, why I had to embarrass myself in front of my friends to find out.

Hoseok does not reply to my answer. “Jimin, let me introduce you to two new friends. They are-”

“Yeah, whatever…” I mumble in a low voice as I interrupt Hoseok. The two strangers must be thinking that I am completely insane. And rude. “Nice to meet you,” I try to smile as I greet them, failing miserably. Then I turn to Hoseok. “Was that him?” I whisper in Hoseok’s ear trying not to make the rest of them hear me this time. I do not have time for prying ears right now.

He sighs. “Ne, hyung.”

He was here, just a few steps away from me. He was here and he is gone again. I do not need to ask Hoseok why he left. I think I already know the answer: he saw me and so he wanted to leave. Or this is the only logical option I can come up with at this moment.

Hoseok looks at me probably waiting for me to ask something else or probably give him an explanation. However, I simply add, “We’re down there. Join us if you want to dance.” They nod.

As they follow behind me, I guide them through the crowd and we finally catch up with the others. After some kisses, and hugs, and smiles, and pats on the shoulders, and greetings, and who cares what else, we dance until it is midnight toast. I keep the thought of finally being able to touch him again in the back of my mind as I grab my glass of champagne. The countdown starts.

Ten.

No way I will be second-guessing every safe but sad decision I made when it came to him.

Nine.

Maybe I should because I am an empty shell, I feel incomplete.

Eight.

Even if I go back to where everything began, I cannot be sure that I will be happier.

Seven.

I do not need to be happy at all costs. C’mon, happiness does not even exist. But am I wrong to crave satisfaction every once in a while?

Six.

I know what I want. I know who I want to be. Or at least almost enough not to be distressed.

Five.

Make a choice, Jimin. And be sure of that. Yoongi was right.

Four.

It cannot be that hard. There are only two options available: take it or leave it.

Three.

I do not want to be with someone if it feels like an obligation. Do I have to force myself? Why does it feel so stressful to love someone else?

Two.

I want Jimin, no one else.

One.

Finally, I am free to be free.

“Happy New Year!” Everybody in the room screams out loud, a joyful cheering that sinks in our hearts. I can see how all the people around me have the same expectation: this year cannot be as shitty as the previous one. I would like to ask Yoongi what he thinks about it, but he is nowhere to be found.

The sound of tinkling glasses thunders in the room as we cheer up at the thought of a new year that we wish to be different even though it will not, probably. As I drink, I know that I will not be different: I will simply be Park Jimin, the real one with all his strengths and weaknesses. This new awareness makes me smile like a fool. A smile full of relief.

Even if that figure will always be impressed in my mind, I will move on. I have survived enough; I just want to live. This figure will not be a void inside of me anymore. He will gently hide between the walls of my soul, an indelible part of the person I am today, and I do not feel ashamed of it. Myself, this is my starting point now.

I will keep walking down the streets, even though this time I will only have the ones I love with me, those that I really need, without bottles of gin to fill the vacant seat that a familiar passenger was forced to leave. A passenger I vaguely remember now even if I still want him somehow. Is it endless love or is it poisonous stubbornness?

Too often I let this need of him intoxicate me, a need that used to be essential just out of habit. Now I know it is only an addiction. I have been living without him for three years. I cannot deny it even if I wish I could. And when it finally comes to move on, I stand frozen. I thought it was a sign of weakness, now I am aware that life shows itself in an unexpected fashion. Without fear or shame or misery, I embrace this knowledge for the first time. Fierceness and confidence run through my veins.

Why I have always felt guilty, I cannot really tell. Perhaps, the thought of never being able to change what did not make me feel good is what hurts me the most. My only fault was to keep denying the truth: I had been changing during the years. Is it too bad not to always be the same person? Why do people keep dwelling on the concept that their old self is supposed to always be better than the new one?

A change. This is what I need in my life. I have always feared how things inevitably evolve in time, how years pass by, without thinking that, after every second, I am a brand new me. I am not better, I am not worse.

The same is true for the manuscript I decided to destroy. I was too focused on making it ‘better’ without considering that there was nothing to be changed. If I was not happy with it, I should have started another one. A book with whole different chapters, respecting the old one, trusting the new one.

Feeling lighter than before, I try to come to terms with the decision I subconsciously made a long time ago, the one I am going to deal with right now. As soon as the rhythm of the music changes from a frenetic swing to a sweet jazz and all couples slow dance, I take the opportunity to hold Mallory in my arms.

“ _If I told a lie, if I made you cry, when I said goodbye, I'm sorry_.”

Perfect timing for a perfect song. I hold Mallory as tight as I can and, even though she notices it, she does not say a thing about it. She gives in to my hold and lets herself go. Despite her curiosity, she lets me lull her. We stay like this until she speaks.

“Jimin…”

“Mal, you know you’re more than beautiful, right?”

Mallory seems surprised. “Yes?” She asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” I state firmly. “And you also know you’re a good woman.”

“It’s not a question.”

“It is even if it’s a statement.”

Mallory thinks about it. “Yeah, I am. I’m a complicated woman, but I manage to be as nice as possible at the end of the day.”

“The first aspect doesn’t rule out the second one,” I say as I keep lulling her in my arms.

“Why are you asking me such things, Jimin?”

I wait a couple of minutes before answering. “I just want to be sure that you’re aware of the amazing person you are. Never doubt it, got it?”

My voice allows for no argument. Mallory looks at me and nods.

“ _If I caused you pain, I know I'm to blame; must have been insane, believe me_.”

As we dance surrounded by our trusted friends, I feel a not clearly defined emotion growing inside of me. It is longing mixed with stupor. Maybe it is due to this moment of celebration, or my newly obtained lightness, or the hug I am sharing with this incredible woman.

I wish I could simply let my actions speak for me and go straight to her heart so she can feel protected, comforted, and appreciated. But I must speak this time, she has to feel my closeness even if I already decided to let our destinies go separate ways. Unexpectedly, she is the first to start a conversation.

“Why do I feel like you’re saying goodbye?” Mallory asks bluntly. Her voice is sweet and soft, not bitter at all. I do not answer because I cannot find a way to tell the truth without hurting her. Although I already did. Therefore, she adds, “I don’t have the feeling, I rephrase. I know you’re saying goodbye.”

She has always been so perceptive. “I’m sorry, Mal. I’m so sorry.” This is the only thing I am able to say right now. Leaving someone is always the worst feeling. Letting her go, even if it is right, is surprisingly hard to do.

“Don’t be sorry, Jimin. We both know that we’d been stuck in a limbo from which none of us were able to escape.” She holds me tighter than before. “Luckily enough, you’re saving us both. And believe me, I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for having you in my life despite everything.”

I can feel how emotional she is getting. An overwhelming emotion flows in me as well. “I own you a lot, Mal. Thank you for bearing me for so long. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass. Too many times I wasn’t there when you needed me. I don’t mean to sound cliché, but you deserve more than just me. I wish I could give you the whole universe, but there are still a lot of things you don’t know about me and I’m trying to save you from all my demons.”

“Jimin,” she says sighing. “I don’t deserve someone ‘more’ than you. I simply deserve someone different as you deserve someone who isn’t me.”

It is true. There is no one to blame this time; we are just two people paired up for the wrong reasons. “Thank you, Mal. You took care of me when I let you. You say I’m the one saving both. You’ve always been the one though.”

“Thank you, Jimin, for being there every time I came back home from work travels. You made me feel less alone even if you were distant at times.”

I slowly put my head on hers. “You’re not alone, Mal. You’re just fucking busy.”

She chuckles. “Look who’s talking!” She exclaims without sounding offended. “We should work less and live more. Do you want to know what I realized when I was in Vermont?”

“Sure, Mal.”

Mallory hesitates a bit. “I know I want a family. And a dog. I want all the stupid things that usually women wish for. If this makes a woman stupid or predictable, then I want to be stupid and predictable. I want a house by the sea and some kids playing on a floor stained with melted chocolate. I want to cook on Sundays wearing an ugly apron and then complaining because my husband never helps in the kitchen even if he’s always in charge to do gardening.” She laughs and shakes her head. She sounds like she does not believe her own words. “And I want to argue with my mother-in-law to make her understand that I have more strengths than weaknesses. I want all these clichés that I openly disdain, but intimately crave. I’m basic, Jimin. And I’m so fucking proud of it.”

We both laugh heartily. We laugh as if we have all the time in the world to cherish this moment. She strokes my cheek now that she is staring at me, a spontaneous sign of affection. Then she adds, “And you know what? I want you to be happy, Jimin. So happy you could die. Promise me.”

For the first time, I believe I can make this promise. “I do, Mal.”

“And promise me to write at least dozens of books so, in a few years, I’ll be bragging about getting fucked by the sexiest Korean in New York City!”

I giggle, a little bit flustered. “Just New York City?!”

Mallory snorts amused and slaps my shoulder. “Don’t push your luck. I don’t want to witness how success will get to your head already.” And so, I laugh.

These are the last words spoken. We keep holding each other tight while moving our hips to the rhythm of the music. She clings to me for protection, I cling to her for need.

We know that, when the night will be over, we will leave some pieces of us inside the other; pieces that will never come back to us. Still, we will not miss them as we both protected ourselves from any delusion.

As we dance, we forgive each other for wrongs suffered and done with the hope to always recall only the good. It is true, after all, that Mallory and I have been good at plowing a fertile, fruitful field while waiting for the right one.

“ _From the bottom of my heart, dear, I apologize. I realize I've been unfair to you._ _Please let me make amends_.”

I cannot tell how many songs we dance to, so close to each other yet about to be distant. At some point, we gift each other the last kiss. Not a rough, passionate kiss, just a sweet, spontaneous one. A kiss we have never dared to give before.

When our lips meet, there is no fire setting a forest ablaze, but the flickering flame of a candle that weakens in the dark of the night. It is in the time of farewells that you crave a never-ending bond.

We share light kisses which almost hang in mid-air. We help each other to retrace all the moments spent together and erase our fake good intentions.

The mournfulness of the heart gives itself to eternal rest. Waiting for a new beginning, it is with a farewell that I welcome the year that has just come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: I apologize by Timi Yuro
> 
> SPOILER  
> Can you guess why Jungkook decided to leave? Write a comment and share your thoughts with me!


	11. Part II - Sowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters are coming soon. I'm both excited and nervous to be honest! Wish you all a great, safe day!

**PART II - SOWING**

The path from you extending,

I could not see its course - 

or the closer to you I was getting,

the further from you I'd walked.

For I was moving in a circle,

not a line as I had thought - 

the steps I took away from you,

were taking me towards.

_Second Chances_ by Lang Leav


	12. The Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Smile after smile, now I have a reason to feel lighter. He gives me all the right motives to keep going on, relentless and a little bit braver, although we are not together. And for that, Jungkook, I am grateful for loving you."
> 
> or 
> 
> Finally, after a very long time, the separate lives of Jimin and Jungkook collide under an unforeseeable circumstance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I am so happy to publish this chapter. I have been working on most of the next chapters to connect the dots. I love this story with all my heart, honestly, because it reminds me of a lot of past relationships and everything that went wrong. It might seem sad, but I've really learned how to love myself more and accept both happy and sad moments in life. 
> 
> The writing process takes time, energy, and a lot of patience - plus, hours - but I am always proud of myself when every single chapter is ready. Dear Old Days is a long journey, indeed. I hope you like it as much as I do and find a part of yourself in this story as well.
> 
> I promise to update more often. As I said in the comment section of my other fanfic, I am currently very busy and, unfortunately, since I have a lot of work to do, I do not have much time. However, I will try to do my best. Also, fibromyalgia is really giving me a hard time (I don't know if you've ever heard of it before - SPOILER: It sucks!) Sometimes, it's painful and nerve-wracking, because it takes a lot of energy out of me. I'll never give up, though.
> 
> Send you love and strength. Always! 💜

“The new year has come, but I haven’t turned into a good man, Jimin. Not yet, at least,” Mr. Mazowska kindly reminds me. “I appreciate how you’ve dealt with all Christmas sales, but I won’t move you to another editorial staff.”

This is going by the book, of course. I am going to be stuck exactly where I am this year as well, but I will not stop trying to run away from this unfortunate stasis. And I will at all costs.

“With all due respect, I don’t think I’m still able to be efficient where I work anymore. After six years, I’d like to move towards a new direction.”

Mr. Mazowska raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean exactly?”

“What I mean is that I expect getting a promotion or moving to another editorial staff, as I’ve already told you,” I try to explain as gently as I can.

He seems to consider my request at the beginning. Then, he furrows his brows and stares at an unclear spot in the room behind my back. When it finally looks like he is going to surrender, then he starts laughing. “A promotion? Are you for real?” He asks making fun of me. “No way, Jimin. You still have a lot to learn. And I can’t move you anywhere since there are no available job positions right now. So, I suggest you being patient and considerate, and waiting for a little longer.”

I snort as I look at his sorry-not-sorry expression on his face, and I get up from the armchair. “I’ve been waiting long enough to be reasonably tired, Mr. Mazowska.” And, well, I am kind of surprised to be able to say something like that out loud.

My boss seems speechless. He is bewildered, more than I am, of course. He opens and closes his mouth without saying anything. And after what it seems to be a lifetime, he replies, “As fun as always, Jimin. Now go, before I fire you.”

“Oh, well, don’t worry,” I promptly say, “I don’t think it’ll take that long before I finally quit.”

I turn on my heels and walk towards the door. Before getting out, I hear him saying, “Although I can’t fire you right now because I have no one to replace you with, this insolence of yours is not going to pass unnoticed for a second time.”

When I am finally away from that devilish devil, I dwell on what I have just said and the risk I have just taken. I am not that dumb to throw away a permanent, safe job position just because I am tired, but I am not that masochist as well to be stuck in here like a prisoner in jail for the rest of my life. I will find my way out. I will find the right solution because there is always the right solution.

Tired and irritated, I find myself in my office once again. I put my elbows on the desk and gently massage my temples. Seokjin has probably noticed the negative outcome of my conversation with our mutual pain the ass: our boss.

“I guess you’re considering looking for a new job,” he claims.

I look at him. “You’re probably the only reason why I haven’t left already,” I grumble and stretch my neck on both sides. “I’m tired and disappointed, hyung. I want more and I’ll get it.”

He smiles at me. “You’re right, Jimin-ssi. That’s the right spirit. I’ll miss you, by the way. A lot!” He winks at me.

 _Liar_ , I think as I roll my eyes. “I know you can’t wait to have me out of here. Just give me some time.”

“You know I’ll miss you, dumb. A couple of months after you’ll be gone.” We laugh. Then, he adds, “Can’t wait to go home, honestly. I miss Minseo right now and I’m hungry.”

“So, you’re basically missing her because of your empty stomach. Jerk!” I tease him before adding, “I just wanna be at my place and drink wine. Today has been quite tough, and I can’t see how it can get any worse.”

When my shift is over – thank the Lord, I grab my stuff, kiss Seokjin goodbye on his cheek because he finds it disgusting, but Taehyung and I love it, give Spencer a death stare for no reason as usual, and finally go home. When I am within walking distance of my apartment, I notice Mrs. Batsy sitting on a bench and holding her wrapped leg.

I guess that she must have fallen again: she has an incredible gift for regularly falling face-down on the ground every two-three months. Even if they do not know each other, Mrs. Batsy and Namjoon are extremely similar – with the only difference that she is old, while he is just the God of clumsiness. I keep smiling as I get closer.

“Mrs. Batsy!” I say as I stand before her. “Are you feeling alright? Are you hurt?”

“Oh, dear Jimin,” she replies smiling. “Don’t worry. It’s not something unusual as we both know.”

I chuckle. “Well, I’m just surprised. That wrapped leg, though…” I say pointing to her leg, “It worries me. What happened this time?”

“I was crossing the street… You know that I like to meet some friends at the bar around the corner, right? Well, I was walking back home, and I tripped. I swear there was something on the street…”

She looks at me, and I give her my ‘knowing’ look because I can already guess that there was absolutely nothing on the crosswalk. “Okay, okay. I admit it: I tripped on myself.” We laugh heartily. “Then, the interesting part, my dear. When I tried to get up, a very kind and so, so handsome boy got me, took me back to the bar and asked the owner to help him to have my leg wrapped. Luckily enough, I decided to wear a long skirt this morning!”

“I can see you didn’t put any socks or tights on, even if it’s January! You’re going to get the flu sooner or later,” I reply concerned about her.

“Never got the flu in all my life, my dear!” She exclaims sounding proud of herself. “I’m hard to kill!” She winks at me as I chuckle. “So, that handsome boy helped me and, as he was walking me back home, I realized that I had left my bag at the bar. So, that’s why I’m here.”

“That was very kind of him. You could wait inside, though! It’s freezing today!”

“Jimin, I’ve just told you that I’ve never got the flu, even if I’m about to be six feet under!”

“What should I do with you?” I smile. “Aish…”

“Oh, look!” She suddenly says. “He’s coming!”

And when I turn to finally see my neighbor’s rescuer, my eyes and heart did not expect to face _him_ : eyes wide shut from the shock, heart roaring like a wild beast. I mostly faint on the spot. I can feel my hands shaking, all my body is sweating.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Mrs. Batsy asks me. “I forgot to tell you that he’s Korean just like you! What a coincidence!” _Yeah, I can see that_ , I would like to tell her.

My mouth is dry, though; no words come out. I still cannot see him that well due to the poor streetlight, but I would recognize that stride even on the darkest night among millions of people. It is pitch black on the other side of the street as well, so I do not think that he has already figured out who I am. _You still have time to put yourself together, Jimin_ , I silently keep repeating to myself.

Are we again at the starting point, at the beginning of our story? Have we ever left our place? It is still the present, but it tastes like the past. It might look like I am waiting for him outside our home, as he walks back from the office to finally kiss me after a long day. But the truth hurts.

What I can clearly see right now is a young man who does not look at all like the kid who left Seoul many years ago. The handsome man who is coming towards me is not the person that I used to love unconditionally. Or he is still the same, but completely different.

When he is just a few steps away from us, his smile turns into a strange grimace. He looks bewildered – I cannot blame him – and utterly surprised. But is it a good surprise? I cannot tell. His eyes bare into my soul, wide open; a soft gasp leaves his thin, sensual mouth. If he is scared of seeing a ghost from the past, he does not let his feelings gain the upper hand. I wish I could do the same.

“My dear Jimin, here’s the sweetie who helped me!” Mrs. Batsy announces as she tries to lighten the mood. She does not say anything about our weird acting: she simply stands between two young men dressed all in black who stay quiet, while a storm of silent emotions rages around them.

He seems to let it go first, so he pulls himself together and gives me a hint of a smile that pierces my heart. He does not smile at me with his eyes or his mouth, but with his soul. And I am still not sure if I really deserve it. It is so genuinely radiant, a bit mischievous, but so honest. Egoistically, I absorb it within me as I try to impress it in my memory.

“Hi…” He simply says. 

Just a simple word like this one implies an infinity of interpretations and possibilities: painful memories, genuine curiosity, vain expectations, broken dreams, and inevitable sacrifices. His voice betrays him; Mrs. Batsy notices it as well. I guess that she is going to ask me thousands of questions right after he leaves. _Right, he is going to leave me_ , I think to myself, _and it is killing me somehow_.

“Nice to meet you, Park Jimin,” I pretend not to know him. It is so easy for me to keep lying.

He does not say anything about my fake undercover; in fact, he reaches out his hand to greet me. There is no other option than get closer and shake hands. When his smooth skin touches mine, I feel like everything is awakening. My body experiences a sort of existential dawn. His touch reminds me of all the good we did for each other, and all the things we will never going to experience together. It is a shame, honestly, not to let him love me any longer.

“I’m Jeon Jungkook. It’s my pleasure.”

He also pretends. Perhaps, he has understood my childish need to protect myself, a selfish sort of protection from him, even if he is harmless. Can this surprising rendezvous be a restart?

Anyway, although he probably notices my trembling voice, he does not comment on it. Jungkook stays silent showing no emotions as his eyes shine in the dark. But I know him, still. I am sure that countless memories and thoughts are now invading his mind. I wish I could better read his magnificent face and convince him to let me see his beautiful heart, although it is perfectly hiding from me.

We study each other in complete stillness. A lifetime will never be enough span of time to silence my inner turmoil. Hand in hand, we stay there, facing each other, as Mrs. Batsy’s gaze lingers on us in disbelief. Even if we are not alone right now, it feels like there is only us.

Jungkook is attractive in a mature, confident way. There is nothing left of his juvenile appearance. He is a brand-new man with the same sparkling eyes. Every part of his body looks like it is screaming, “I know who I am, I know what I want,” and it frightens me somehow. If I used to be the bold one in the past, now he probably is. However, I cannot say it for sure: I need to talk to him at least to know more about him. And talking, right now, does not seem like an option.

I look at his raven wavy hair reaching down to his warm brown doe eyes. I hardly avoid staring at his lips because it would be awkward. And inappropriate. A lot of silver small loops pierce both of his ears, his tattooed right hand is still wrapped around mine. I still can find something about my ex-lover in these new features. I miss Jungkookie, but I cannot stop admiring Jungkook.

It is a weird feeling to know someone like your own self, and then not at all. I loved him for a very long time – a part of me still does – and, at the same time, I have stopped having him for years. I would like to know what he has been through or done without me; I would like to ask if has managed to obtain what he wanted in his life, or if he is still chasing his childhood dreams.

His long black coat jealously wraps and hides his body, but I cannot stop imagining how it looks now. It is selfish and wrong; I want it, though. The only part of him that I can see is just his face. It seems nothing, but it is everything to me. His sweet dimples make me weak.

Although I try not to stare at him more than I should, I fail miserably. As soon as I realize that I am still shaking his hand like a fool, I let it go and put my hand in my pocket. I can still feel his warm touch lingers on it and it gets me deeply.

It is the warmth of a home you turn to after a difficult day at work, where you know that your soulmate is waiting for you on the couch with open arms and his heart on his sleeve. My couch is empty, though; my apartment is cold and hostile.

“Well, boys… I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing – yeah, unfortunately, I have to agree with Jimin. Are you just standing there, or do you want to get inside with me?” Mrs. Batsy says, tension cutting the air. “I make you dinner. You look like you’re starving.” She stares at me. “Starving for food, of course.”

“Uhm… I guess it’s better if I go,” I’m surprised to hear Jungkook that hesitant. “Thank you for inviting me over. I’ll buy you a coffee next time.” I would like to steal the smile that he is giving to her and make it mine, and then dream of it any time my eyes close before sleeping and keep it safe with all his other smiles in my drawer of memories.

“I insist! It’s the least that I can do to thank you!” Mrs. Batsy smiles at him as well. “You’ve been so kind and thoughtful. You haven’t batted an eye and listened to my old stupid anecdotes for the entire afternoon. So, accept my dinner offer. Please! You know…” She stops talking and then turns in my direction, gently putting her hand on my arm. “My Jimin here won’t bite.” As I flush red, she winks at me knowing that Jungkook cannot see her.

I would have probably laughed in a different situation. Right now, I only want to run away from this weird, odd circumstance, which is almost hilariously tragic. Before I am about to greet goodbye and escape, Jungkook replies, “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

I can sense his challenge: he knows that I prefer leaving rather than staying, since I am mostly famous for my stupid pride, and this is exactly the reason why I am not going to let him win.

“Let’s go having dinner then,” I say pretending to be excited when I only wish to smack him in the face – I cannot really say why; probably his grin is bothering me right now. And this time as well, I have just been lured into his trap. His look tells me that I have already lost this game.

We follow Mrs. Batsy right up to her front door. Her hand is still on my arm, as Jungkook seems to be attached to my hip. On her threshold, Mrs. Batsy opens the door and gets in, while Jungkook and I stand there without moving an inch.

“Go ahead,” he says gesturing for me to get in.

“Don’t worry. Go ahead and I’ll follow,” I reply trying to be as polite as I can, a forced smile on my face that does not look natural at all.

“I must insist. I let you do the honors,” Jungkook says to bother me, apparently.

“You could get in and let me follow you since I already know the place,” I answer in a childish way as I get impatient and upset by our dumb conversation.

“Jimin, why are you still keeping the boy out there?” Mrs. Batsy asks leaning out from the door of the living room. “Don’t stand there like a fool. Get in and show him around as I put something warmer on.”

After she leaves, I snort and turn to Jungkook. “Are you happy now?”

He simply stares at me, a radiant smile of satisfaction on his face. “Very much, thank you.” And he goes in without waiting for my reply. He knows how to tease me in the worst way possible. I should be even more upset, or probably not, but this new side of him intrigues me.

“You can leave your coat…” I do not finish my sentence because, as soon as I turn around to take off my coat, he has already left his on the couch. He stands tall in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. He looks like an ethereal vision.

I shamelessly follow the features of his body with my eyes, focusing on all the small details: his slightly creased blue jeans with an evident protuberance between his thick legs; the long, tight-fitting sleeves of his black shirt that highlights his chiseled arms.

He seems to notice what I am doing, so he is perfectly aware of having all of my attention. Therefore, he rolls up his sleeves revealing what seems to be a fully tattooed right arm. I must be drooling right now because he chuckles as our eyes meet once again.

“Jimin, your coat,” he says amused, making fun of me.

“Wh-what?” I ask too lost on my voluptuous thoughts as I stare at his pecs, and then his thick thighs.

“You can give me your coat instead of checking me out.” Ouch, his mocking tone punches me straight in my face. “Or I can let you do that if you prefer. I don’t mind being ‘marveled at.’”

Before I can think of a good answer, he gets closer, takes off my coat, and then moves to the couch to leave it there. He does not take his eyes off me and I feel naked. I feel like a high school student who gets the attention of his crush for the first time.

Luckily enough, Mrs. Batsy sneaks in, looks at us rolling her eyes, and then brings us with her in the kitchen. We spend around thirty minutes there cutting vegetables and browning meat with rosemary and sage in a pan.

As we cook next to each other, his body accidentally brushes against mine more than once. And every time it happens, I mostly faint or die from a panic attack or cry for this unstoppable nostalgia that is devouring my gut. It is silent, delicious torture that makes me wish not to wake up the next morning and miss all of this. Can I put this moment on a loop? Is he going to be around when this day ends and tomorrow comes?

When we are finally at the table, Mrs. Batsy talks about her unlucky day as she pours red wine in our glasses, while Jungkook and I are sitting across from each other. His lingering gaze scrutinizes everything I do: he looks like he is waiting for me to make a false move. Or perhaps, it is just my imagination. I still do not know if we are effectively ourselves right now or just blurred figures from the past.

“So, Jongug… Right? Am I saying it right?” Mrs. Batsy asks.

Jungkook chuckles. “Well, almost… But I don’t mind. Jongug is fine.”

“No, no I want to say it right… Repeat it, please!”

“Uhm… It’s Jungkook,” he blushes a bit.

“Oh, now I get it,” Mrs. Batsy says. “Okay, so, my dear Jongug, you told me that you had moved here a couple of months ago.”

As I chuckle, an amused Jungkook replies, “Yes, Mrs. Batsy. I arrived in New York City in September, just after my birthday.”

“Please, call me Katherine. Oh, really? When is it?”

When I am unconsciously about to reply, he says, “September 1st.”

“Oh, well, a wish you a very delayed happy birthday!” We all laugh, and it is kind of weird to share a pleasant moment like this one with him as well. “Do you like staying here?”

“Uhm…” He hesitates. “It’s always good to be back. New York is the city that never dies. It’s my wonderland.”

“So, this isn’t the first time you’re staying or living here.” Mrs. Batsy is getting curious.

“Not exactly…” He takes a long sip from his glass at the same time as I do. We are always connected somehow. We used to be each other’s shadows bound together by a fil rouge. “I used to live here in the past. Just a few years ago.”

“I see…” Mrs. Batsy replies with her mouth full. “Can I ask you why you decided to leave?”

Jungkook seems hesitant once again. He is silently choosing the right words to say. He has always been a cautious guy: he avoids getting hurt when he senses something bad on his way. And we are alike, in this regard. “There was nothing holding me back anymore.”

I choke on my wine. Mrs. Batsy looks at me and ‘gently’ pats my back. “Are you okay, Jimin?”

I reply embarrassed, “Yeah, everything’s fine. It just went down the wrong way.” I purposefully avoid looking at him because chagrin is eating me alive.

“Be careful, Jimin. We don’t want you to get hurt,” Jungkook suddenly exclaims smiling at me. His stare is cold, though.

Before I can say something, Mrs. Batsy asks him, “It sounds like you experienced a painful disappointment in an important relationship.” She smiles at him. “I’m sure that New York will hold for you only happy moments this time.”

“I can feel it already. I’m more optimistic, I guess. Sometimes, you need to learn and start from those experiences where you felt hopeless.”

“So, where did you start from?” I ask before thinking twice. The words come out too fast.

Jungkook does not smile. He loses himself in me, I can see the way he is attracted by my own being. My eyes are two deep black holes that he can – probably – still read. “I started from the only thing I had then: a broken-heart with a great desire to live.”

Honestly, there is nothing I can say. Maybe, I simply do not want to argue with him or just create any sort of discussion about our past relationship. I just let his feelings flow and fill in the room, because every time he opens his mouth, he speaks the truth. Well, his truth.

“And this desire to live… Where did that get you?” Mrs. Batsy says as she notices our bitter mood.

“It got me to see and travel all around the world. I’d been in many places before I got here. In the last years, I took professional photography classes after college. It used to be just a useless, childish passion; now it’s my job. And it’s fulfilling.” He pauses for a few seconds. “Suddenly, I felt like I needed to move back here. I was looking for new inspiration. So, here I am.”

“How long do you think you’re going to stay, exactly?” I ask without understanding my own feelings: am I bothered or curious? Or both?

“Is it a way to ask me if I need you as my city tour guide?” He is mocking me once again. “Perhaps, I’ll let you do that once or twice.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is it your twisted way to ask me out?” I ask him in return, teasing him. “Just be more straight forward. Mrs. Batsy is right: I don’t bite.”

It is his turn to reply, but Mrs, Batsy anticipates his move. “Listen, I don’t know which one of you started pretending tonight. I’m too old for this craziness – it’s the first and last time I’m admitting it, so be grateful – and I’m having a really hard time following this little ‘we’re totally-not-strangers’ act of yours.”

She gets up and pours more wine into our glasses. “So… What I’m saying is that you need to talk as much as I need to sleep right now. All this tension is making me dizzy.” She smiles at both of us. “Goodnight, kids. Make love, not war. And, please, secure the door when you leave.” Then, he turns to Jungkook and gently strokes his hair. “It was nice to meet you. Surely, we’ll meet again soon.”

As she leaves the room, I think of tonight’s absurdity. It is probably the most awkward, unpredictable night of my entire life. On one hand, I cannot stop staring at him as lustful memories keep replaying in front of my eyes. They are so strong and vivid that I can still smell his skin.

On the other hand, I fear this type of attachment. I am trying to figure out if I can still love Jungkook now that I barely know him, even if he used to be the one I knew the most. It is almost exhilarating: fear always rips me off.

“I’ll be in the living room.” It is the only thing to say that comes to my mind. I leave the kitchen and carefully put my glass of wine on the small coffee table between the two patchwork armchairs to avoid spilling the content on two comfy embroidered white blankets. I turn on the TV and choose a random music channel.

Then, I silently move towards the big window facing the dimly lit street. I look at my neighborhood from above as I keep my hands in the pockets of my tight jeans. My breath is shaky. From the reflections of the glass, I can see Jungkook staring back just a few steps away from where I stand.

_“Ain't no way for me to love you if you won't let me.”_

A bitter smile appears on my tired face. We are finally in the same room, and there is nothing to say. Or, at least, I cannot choose the right words to say. Everything seems meaningless or pretentious. I keep my eyes fixed on the glass.

I feel bolder if my back is turned – what a coward. Bold enough not to sink into false expectations. I need to feel grounded in healthy, encouraging thoughts, even if I cannot find any of them right now. Both present and past hurt, and my future is possibly going to be even worse.

“Look at me, Jimin,” he demands. His voice leaves no room for arguments. This new side of him scares me a bit. It is unexpected and makes me feel like a small, frightened kitty cat. “Turn around and look at me for real.”

I smile looking down at my feet. “I don’t want you to be real.”

Jungkook chuckles bitterly. “I’m right here, though.”

“I know, it’s just that…” I do not end the sentence. Although I do not think I am ready to face him, I turn around. “Ain’t no way you’re standing here in front of me.”

“But still… Here I am,” he states boldly. His gaze hard on me, merciless. “So…”

“So…”

“How’s your eomma?” He gently asks, his kind words do not match with his fiery gaze. His softness is currently trapped inside a heavy armor of self-overprotection. I am perfectly aware that he is currently protecting himself from Park Jimin.

Unexpectedly, I start laughing. Well, it is a bit forced, but still honest. “Is this your wild card to break the ice?” I ask amused.

Finally, a hint of a smile appears on his face and he shrugs his shoulders. “You know that I’m her biggest fan – after you, of course. I care about her.”

“You should call her, then. You don’t need to ask me,” I reply without meaning to show the confrontational side of my personality.

“I’ve never stopped calling her, Jimin.” Jungkook says without batting an eye. “But I haven’t had enough time in the last month. That’s why I’ve asked you.”

“Well, as I’ve just said, you can call her.”

As he starts losing his patience, he rolls his eyes and laughs at me. “Still the same, Jimin, uh? Just tell me how she is.”

“It’s _hyung_ for you, not Jimin.” I simply reply. _That’s very mature, Jimin_ , I think to myself.

“Really?” He asks faking disbelief, a mocking grin on his face. Jungkook ignores my previous words and my childish disappointment. “Jimin,” he repeats loudly dropping honorifics again, “I guess your eomma is fine.”

I sigh. “What do you really want to ask me?”

Jungkook snorts. “I really wanted to know how she is.”

“She’s fine,” I reply defeated. “Now, ask me something for real.”

“Jimin, why are you being so difficult? I only ask you what I want to know, for real.” He simply points out. But I know that he is lying if he still is my Jungkook.

“Such a grown-up. No secret message between the lines?”

“Why should I? What’s the point of asking you a thing if I’m interested in knowing something completely different about you?”

“Isn’t it what we’ve always done?” I say without thinking. “This is us, Jungkook.”

He smiles, a sad look in his eyes. “This was us, Jimin. But now, we’re nothing.”

This painful _nothing_ resonates and thunders, unceasingly. Everything hurts – a kind of hurt that stings somehow like a needle. It hits me like a sledgehammer, unexpected, and unforgiving.

_“Ain't no way for me to give you all you need if you won't let me give all of me.”_

I stay quiet for a while. Saddened and confused, I ask, “So, is this what you plan to do from now on? Having a go at me? Punching me with harsh words?”

Unlike me, Jungkook does not fall apart. There is no sign of the previous sad look in his eyes. He looks empty right now. “I’m not planning anything. I just hoped to have a pleasant, civil conversation. Is it too hard to believe? I haven’t seen you in a long time, after all. Aren’t you curious to know something about me?” He tries to smile but fails. “Like… Anything at all?”

 _There are thousands of things that I would like to ask you_ , I repeat on my mind like a mantra. However, my words never follow my stream of thoughts. “Why did you come back?”

“Are you saying that you’re happy to see me?

“No message between the lines, remember?” I sigh in return. “Honestly? I’m just surprised.”

“But I bet you’re happy somehow.” After a short pause, he says, “I can tell it by your wavering words, rigid body posture, and uncertain gaze.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a photographer?” I laugh a bit. “Or are you a non-verbal language specialist?”

Finally, he smiles at me, his eyes shine in the semi-dark room. “No, I’ve just learned how to read people.”

“Touché. So, what did you learn?”

“If you know how to read people, then you can protect yourself. You learn how to spot danger and pain in a long-distance and take proper precautions.” Jungkook explains almost systematically as if it was an act that he had learned by heart.

“Am I your danger and pain? Your enemy, now?” I ask almost certain about his answer.

However, as it happens all the time, he surprises me. “Not at all.”

“Uh…” My heart beats fast. “How come?”

“What are you even saying? You’ll never be my enemy, Jimin.” He shrugs his shoulders. And, suddenly, gets closer. “Thanks to you, I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Glad I could help, I guess?” I almost swallow my own words. “It sounds more like an insult, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” As I feel attracted to him, I step closer as well. “You no longer look like a kid. You…” I point him out. “You look like a man now.”

Jungkook is close, so close that it is almost impossible not to break into a cold sweat. I am shaking like a leaf – or this is how I feel like inside me – and I really hope that he will not notice it.

“You’re always… You!” He exclaims sounding astonished. “It’s strange, you know? No offense, it’s not something negative. I just expected to see you at least a little bit different. Or older,” he chuckles. “But I swear you haven’t aged a single day since the last time I saw you.”

I flush red feeling stupid. And pleasantly shocked. “Well… Thank you, I guess? If what you mean is that I am still good-looking, then thank you, Jungkook.”

“What I mean is…” He takes two steps forward; I can feel his warm breath on my skin. “Even if you look exactly like the old Jimin, are you still him?” He sounds… Hopeful? His gaze still scrutinizes me from head to toe. He seems like he is focusing on every single detail of my body. I have clothes on, but I feel exposed and vulnerable, completely bare. “Who are you, Jimin?”

_“Oh, but how can I give you all the things I can if you're tying both of my hands?”_

Jungkook… I hoped that you could tell me. I would like to open my head in half and let you in, so you could hear all the voices echoing inside me. I guess that you could probably help me handling this sick confusion. On many occasions, I have asked myself if you have ever experienced this same mess in these last few years. _How did you survive? Please, take care of me, and let me survive_ , I think.

“I…” It is a soft, almost silent gasp.

Jungkook is waiting. Still, he stands here waiting for me to say something. He needs to know, but I cannot let my feelings show. He waits in hope, I keep quiet in fear, although I would love to cease this never-ending dance of misunderstandings.

“Right…” He signs after a couple of minutes, almost melancholy. His brown orbits suck me up. I am more lost than before, alone in a dark space. “I do hope that you’ll figure it out one day.”

He does not wait for an answer. He turns away, walks towards the couch to grab his coat, puts it on, and then throws a final longing glance at my spot. Everything seems to happen so fast. He nods and then leans against the door to put his shoes on. I blink my eyes rapidly, waking up from a trance state, and follow him. “Are you leaving?”

Jungkook giggles and gives me a deadly smile. He must be thinking that I am the dumbest person that he has ever met. “Well, yes?” He states the obvious.

“Okay,” I managed to say. Just a simple, stupid _oka_ y. I feel torn apart when his tattooed hand grabs the doorknob. How should I greet him goodbye? He is still someone I deeply love. And he is leaving me. Thousands of questions remain unanswered.

As I keep fighting the fear that is growing in both my heart and mind, he says, “See you around.”

Surprisingly enough, I reply, “I hope not.”

As I flush red considering apologizing for my reckless stupidity – I did not mean to say it out loud, he laughs loudly throwing his head back. Mrs. Batsy is wrong: Jungkook is not handsome, but absolutely, heavenly stunning.

“Jimin…” He sighs. As he keeps smiling, he gets out the door and closes it behind him.

_“It ain't no way for me to love you if you won't let me.”_

Paralyzed, I keep facing the door while asking myself if the evening spent together was a dream, a nightmare, or a déjà-vu. When I am finally able to move, I collapse into the couch, and then I keep my eyes fixed on the TV without paying too much attention. I feel like I have lost all my senses. Despite my numbness, suddenly I cannot stop smiling. Probably, I am getting crazy.

After a long time, my heart is in a pleasant, warming turmoil; it seems like it is working again. There is a spark in my chest. Like a fuse, my own being bursts into flames. And this is exactly how I understand that I cannot live by fear alone, even when I am allowed to be frightened.

Smile after smile, now I have a reason to feel lighter. He gives me all the right motives to keep going on, relentless and a little bit braver, although we are not together. And for that, Jungkook, I am grateful for loving you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Ain't No Way by Aretha Franklin


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